THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 

FOR  THE 
ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


THE  TALES  OF  CHEKHOV 

VOL.  IV 

THE  PARTY 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •   BOMBAY  •   CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE  PARTY 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

ANTON  CHEKHOV 


FROM   THE    RUSSIAN 

Bv  CONSTANCE  GARNETT 


•Bfaro  fork 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1921 

A-ll  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  September,   1917. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  PARTY 3 

TERROR 63 

A  WOMAN'S  KINGDOM 87 

A  PROBLEM 159 

THE  Kiss 173 

"  ANNA  ON  THE  NECK  " 209 

THE  TEACHER  OF  LITERATURE 235 

NOT  WANTED 277 

TYPHUS 291 

A  MISFORTUNE 305 

A  TRIFLE  FROM  LIFE 33 l 


THE  PARTY 


THE  PARTY 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 

THE  PARTY 
I 

AFTER  the  festive  dinner  with  its  eight  courses  and 
its  endless  conversation,  Olga  Mihalovna,  whose 
husband's  name-day  was  being  celebrated,  went  out 
into  the  garden.  The  duty  of  smiling  and  talking 
incessantly,  the  clatter  of  the  crockery,  the  stupidity 
of  the  servants,  the  long  intervals  between  the 
courses,  and  the  stays  she  had  put  on  to  conceal  her 
condition  from  the  visitors,  wearied  her  to  exhaus- 
tion. She  longed  to  get  away  from  the  house,  to 
sit  in  the  shade  and  rest  her  heart  with  thoughts  of 
the  baby  which  was  to  be  born  to  her  in  another  two 
months.  She  was  used  to  these  thoughts  coming  to 
her  as  she  turned  to  the  left  out  of  the  big  avenue 
into  the  narrow  path.  Here  in  the  thick  shade  of 
the  plums  and  cherry-trees  the  dry  branches  used 
to  scratch  her  neck  and  shoulders;  a  spider's  web 
would  settle  on  her  face,  and  there  would  rise  up  in 

3 


4          The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

her  mind  the  image  of  a  little  creature  of  undeter- 
mined sex  and  undefined  features,  and  it  began  to 
seem  as  though  it  were  not  the  spider's  web  that 
tickled  her  face  and  neck  caressingly,  but  that  little 
creature.  When,  at  the  end  of  the  path,  a  thin 
wicker  hurdle  came  into  sight,  and  behind  it  podgy 
beehives  with  tiled  roofs;  when  in  the  motionless, 
stagnant  air  there  came  a  smell  of  hay  and  honey, 
and  a  soft  buzzing  of  bees  was  audible,  then  the 
little  creature  would  take  complete  possession  of 
Olga  Mihalovna.  She  used  to  sit  down  on  a  bench 
near  the  shanty  woven  of  branches,  and  fall  to 
thinking. 

This  time,  too,  she  went  on  as  far  as  the  seat,  sat 
down,  and  began  thinking;  but  instead  of  the  little 
creature  there  rose  up  in  her  imagination  the  figures 
of  the  grown-up  people  whom  she  had  just  left. 
She  felt  dreadfully  uneasy  that  she,  the  hostess,  had 
deserted  her  guests,  and  she  remembered  how  her 
husband,  Pyotr  Dmitritch,  and  her  uncle,  Nikolay 
Xikolaitch,  had  argued  at  dinner  about  trial  by  jury, 
about  the  press,  and  about  the  higher  education  of 
women.  Her  husband,  as  usual,  argued  in  order 
to  show  off  his  Conservative  ideas  before  his  visitors 
—  and  still  more  in  order  to  disagree  with  her  uncle, 
whom  he  disliked.  Her  uncle  contradicted  him  and 
wrangled  over  every  word  he  uttered,  so  as  to  show 
the  company  that  he,  Uncle  Xikolay  Nikolaitch,  still 


5 

retained  his  youthful  freshness  of  spirit  and  free- 
thinking  in  spite  of  his  fifty-nine  years.  And  to- 
wards the  end  of  dinner  even  Olga  Mihalovna  her- 
self could  not  resist  taking  part  and  unskilfully 
attempting  to  defend  university  education  for  women 
—  not  that  that  education  stood  in  need  of  her  de- 
fence, but  simply  because  she  wanted  to  annoy  her 
husband,  who  to  her  mind  was  unfair.  The  guests 
were  wearied  by  this  discussion,  but  they  all  thought 
it  necessary  to  take  part  in  it,  and  talked  a  great 
deal,  although  none  of  them  took  any  interest  in 
trial  by  jury  or  the  higher  education  of  women.  .  .  . 

Olga  Mihalovna  was  sitting  on  the  nearest  side 
of  the  hurdle  near  the  shanty.  The  sun  was  hidden 
behind  the  clouds.  The  trees  and  the  air  were  over- 
cast as  before  rain,  but  in  spite  of  that  it  was  hot 
and  stifling.  The  hay  cut  under  the  trees  on  the 
previous  day  was  lying  ungathered,  looking  melan- 
choly, with  here  and  there  a  patch  of  colour  from 
the  faded  flowers,  and  from  it  came  a  heavy,  sickly 
scent.  It  was  still.  The  other  side  of  the  hurdle 
there  was  a  monotonous  hum  of  bees.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  heard  footsteps  and  voices;  some 
one  was  coming  along  the  path  towards  the  bee- 
house. 

"  How  stifling  it  is!"  said  a  feminine  voice. 
"  What  do  you  think  —  is  it  going  to  rain,  or  not?  " 

"  It  is  going  to  rain,  my  charmer,  but  not  before 


6          The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

night,"  a  very  familiar  male  voice  answered 
languidly.  "  There  will  be  a  good  rain." 

Olga  Mihalovna  calculated  that  if  she  made  haste 
to  hide  in  the  shanty  they  would  pass  by  without 
seeing  her,  and  she  would  not  have  to  talk  and  to 
force  herself  to  smile.  She  picked  up  her  skirts, 
bent  down  and  crept  into  the  shanty.  At  once  she 
felt  upon  her  face,  her  neck,  her  arms,  the  hot  air  as 
heavy  as  steam.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  stuffiness 
and  the  close  smell  of  rye  bread,  fennel,  and  brush- 
wood, which  prevented  her  from  breathing  freely,  it 
would  have  been  delightful  to  hide  from  her  visitors 
here  under  the  thatched  roof  in  the  dusk,  and  to  think 
about  the  little  creature.  It  was  cosy  and  quiet. 

"What  a  pretty  spot!"  said  a  feminine  voice. 
"  Let  us  sit  here,  Pyotr  Dmitritch." 

Olga  Mihalovna  began  peeping  through  a  crack 
between  two  branches.  She  saw  her  husband,  Pyotr 
Dmitritch,  and  Lubotchka  Sheller,  a  girl  of  seven- 
teen who  had  not  long  left  boarding-school.  Pyotr 
Dmitritch,  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
languid  and  indolent  from  having  drunk  so  much  at 
dinner,  slouched  by  the  hurdle  and  raked  the  hay  into 
a  heap  with  his  foot;  Lubotchka,  pink  with  the  heat 
and  pretty  as  ever,  stood  with  her  hands  behind  her, 
watching  the  lazy  movements  of  his  big  handsome 
person. 

Olga  Mihalovna  knew  that  her  husband  was  at- 


The  Party  7 

tractive  to  women,  and  did  not  like  to  see  him  with 
them.  There  was  nothing  out  of  the  way  in  Pyotr 
Dmitritch's  lazily  raking  together  the  hay  in  order 
to  sit  down  on  it  with  Lubotchka  and  chatter  to  her 
of  trivialities;  there  was  nothing  out  of  the  way, 
either,  in  pretty  Lubotchka's  looking  at  him  with  her 
soft  eyes;  but  yet  Olga  Mihalovna  felt  vexed  with 
her  husband  and  frightened  and  pleased  that  she 
could  listen  to  them. 

"  Sit  down,  enchantress,"  said  Pyotr  Dmitritch, 
sinking  down  on  the  hay  and  stretching.  '  That's 
right.  Come,  tell  me  something." 

"  What  next !  If  I  begin  telling  you  anything  you 
will  go  to  sleep." 

"  Me  go  to  sleep?  Allah  forbid!  Can  I  go  to 
sleep  while  eyes  like  yours  are  watching  me?  " 

In  her  husband's  words,  and  in  the  fact  that  he 
was  lolling  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head 
in  the  presence  of  a  lady,  there  was  nothing  out  of 
the  way  either.  He  was  spoilt  by  women,  knew 
that  they  found  him  attractive,  and  had  adopted  with 
them  a  special  tone  which  every  one  said  suited 
him.  With  Lubotchka  he  behaved  as  with  all 
women.  But,  all  the  same,  Olga  Mihalovna  was 
jealous. 

'  Tell  me,  please,"  said  Lubotchka,  after  a  brief 
silence  — "  is  it  true  that  you  are  to  be  tried  for 
something?  " 


8          The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"I?  Yes,  I  am  ...  numbered  among  the 
transgressors,  my  charmer." 

"But  what  for?" 

"  For  nothing,  but  just  .  .  .  it's  chiefly  a  question 
of  politics,"  yawned  Pyotr  Dmitritch — "the  antag- 
onisms of  Left  and  Right.  I,  an  obscurantist  and 
reactionary,  ventured  in  an  official  paper  to  make 
use  of  an  expression  offensive  in  the  eyes  of  such  im- 
maculate Gladstones  as  Vladimir  Pavlovitch  Vladi- 
mirov  and  our  local  justice  of  the  peace  —  Kuzma 
Grigoritch  Vostryakov." 

Pytor  Dmitritch  yawned  again  and  went  on: 

"And  it  is  the  way  with  us  that  you  may  express 
disapproval  of  the  sun  or  the  moon,  or  anything  you 
like,  but  God  preserve  you  from  touching  the  Lib- 
erals !  Heaven  forbid !  A  Liberal  is  like  the 
poisonous  dry  fungus  which  covers  you  with  a  cloud 
of  dust  if  you  accidentally  touch  it  with  your  finger." 

"  What  happened  to  you?  " 

"  Nothing  particular.  The  whole  flare-up  started 
from  the  merest  trifle.  A  teacher,  a  detestable  per- 
son of  clerical  associations,  hands  to  Vostryakov  a 
petition  against  a  tavern-keeper,  charging  him  with 
insulting  language  and  behaviour  in  a  public  place. 
Everything  showed  that  both  the  teacher  and  the 
tavern-keeper  were  drunk  as  cobblers,  and  that  they 
behaved  equally  badly.  If  there  had  been  insulting 
behaviour,  the  insult  had  anyway  been  mutual. 


The  Party  9 

Vostryakov  ought  to  have  fined  them  both  for  a 
breach  of  the  peace  and  have  turned  them  out  of  the 
court  —  that  is  all.  But  that's  not  our  way  of  doing 
things.  With  us  what  stands  first  is  not  the  person 
—  not  the  fact  itself,  but  the  trade-mark  and  label. 
However  great  a  rascal  a  teacher  may  be,  he  is 
always  in  the  right  because  he  is  a  teacher;  a  tavern- 
keeper  is  always  in  the  wrong  because  he  is  a  tavern- 
keeper  and  a  money-grubber.  Vostryakov  placed 
the  tavern-keeper  under  arrest.  The  man  appealed 
to  the  Circuit  Court;  the  Circuit  Court  triumphantly 
upheld  Vostryakov's  decision.  Well,  I  stuck  to  my 
own  opinion.  .  .  .  Got  a  little  hot.  .  .  .  That  was 
all." 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  spoke  calmly  with  careless  irony. 
In  reality  the  trial  that  was  hanging  over  him  wor- 
ried him  extremely.  Olga  Mihalovna  remembered 
how  on  his  return  from  the  unfortunate  session  he 
had  tried  to  conceal  from  his  household  how  troubled 
he  was,  and  how  dissatisfied  with  himself.  As  an 
intelligent  man  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  had 
gone  too  far  in  expressing  his  disagreement;  and  how 
much  lying  had  been  needful  to  conceal  that  feeling 
from  himself  and  from  others !  How  many  un- 
necessary conversations  there  had  been!  How 
much  grumbling  and  insincere  laughter  at  what  was 
not  laughable!  When  he  learned  that  he  was  to  be 
brought  up  before  the  Court,  he  seemed  at  once 


10        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

harassed  and  depressed;  he  began  to  sleep  badly, 
stood  oftener  than  ever  at  the  windows,  drumming 
on  the  panes  with  his  fingers.  And  he  was  ashamed 
to  let  his  wife  see  that  he  was  worried,  and  it  vexed 
her. 

'  They  say  you  have  been  in  the  province  of 
Poltava?  "  Lubotchka  questioned  him. 

"  Yes,"    answered    Pyotr    Dmitritch.     "  I    came 
back  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"  I  expect  it  is  very  nice  there." 

'  Yes,  it  is  very  nice,  very  nice  indeed;  in  fact,  I 
arrived  just  in  time  for  the  haymaking,  I  must  tell 
you,  and  in  the  Ukraine  the  haymaking  is  the  most 
poetical  moment  of  the  year.  Here  we  have  a  big 
house,  a  big  garden,  a  lot  of  servants,  and  a  lot 
going  on,  so  that  you  don't  see  the  haymaking;  here 
it  all  passes  unnoticed.  There,  at  the  farm,  I  have 
a  meadow  of  forty-five  acres  as  flat  as  my  hand. 
You  can  see  the  men  mowing  from  any  window  you 
stand  at.  They  are  mowing  in  the  meadow,  they 
are  mowing  in  the  garden.  There  are  no  visitors, 
no  fuss  nor  hurry  either,  so  that  you  can't  help  seeing, 
feeling,  hearing  nothing  but  the  haymaking.  There 
is  a  smell  of  hay  indoors  and  outdoors.  There's  the 
sound  of  the  scythes  from  sunrise  to  sunset.  Alto- 
gether Little  Russia  is  a  charming  country.  Would 
you  believe  it,  when  I  was  drinking  water  from  the 
rustic  wells  and  filthy  vodka  in  some  Jew's  tavern, 


The  Party  11 

when  on  quiet  evenings  the  strains  of  the  Little  Rus- 
sian fiddle  and  the  tambourines  reached  me,  I  was 
tempted  by  a  fascinating  idea  —  to  settle  down  on  my 
place  and  live  there  as  long  as  I  chose,  far  away  from 
Circuit  Courts,  intellectual  conversations,  philoso- 
phizing women,  long  dinners.  .  .  ." 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  was  not  lying.  He  was  unhappy 
and  really  longed  to  rest.  And  he  had  visited  his 
Poltava  property  simply  to  avoid  seeing  his  study, 
his  servants,  his  acquaintances,  and  everything  that 
could  remind  him  of  his  wounded  vanity  and  his 
mistakes. 

Lubotchka  suddenly  jumped  up  and  waved  her 
hands  about  in  horror. 

"Oh!  A  bee,  a  bee!  "  she  shrieked.  "  It  will 
sting!  " 

"  Nonsense;  it  won't  sting,"  said  Pyotr  Dmitritch. 
"  What  a  coward  you  are!  " 

"No,  no,  no,"  cried  Lubotchka;  and  looking 
round  at  the  bees,  she  walked  rapidly  back. 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  walked  away  after  her,  looking 
at  her  with  a  softened  and  melancholy  face.  He 
was  probably  thinking,  as  he  looked  at  her,  of  his 
farm,  of  solitude,  and  —  who  knows  ?  —  perhaps  he 
was  even  thinking  how  snug  and  cosy  life  would  be 
at  the  farm  if  his  wife  had  been  this  girl  —  young, 
pure,  fresh,  not  corrupted  by  higher  education,  not 
with  child. 


12        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

When  the  sound  of  their  footsteps  had  died  away, 
Olga  Mihalovna  came  out  of  the  shanty  and  turned 
towards  the  house.  She  wanted  to  cry.  She  was 
by  now  acutely  jealous.  She  could  understand  that 
her  husband  wras  worried,  dissatisfied  with  himself 
and  ashamed,  and  when  people  are  ashamed  they 
hold  aloof,  above  all  from  those  nearest  to  them,  and 
are  unreserved  wtih  strangers;  she  could  understand, 
also,  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear  from  Lubotchka 
or  from  those  women  who  were  now  drinking  coffee 
indoors.  But  everything  in  general  was  terrible, 
incomprehensible,  and  it  already  seemed  to  Olga 
Mihalovna  that  Pyotr  Dmitritch  only  half  belonged 
to  her.  .  .  . 

"  He  has  no  right  to  do  it!  "  she  muttered,  trying 
to  formulate  her  jealousy  and  her  vexation  with  her 
husband.  "  He  has  no  right  at  all.  I  will  tell  him 
so  plainly!  " 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  find  her  husband  at  once 
and  tell  him  all  about  it:  it  was  disgusting,  absolutely 
disgusting,  that  he  was  attractive  to  other  women 
and  sought  their  admiration  as  though  it  were  some 
heavenly  manna;  it  was  unjust  and  dishonourable 
that  he  should  give  to  others  what  belonged  by  right 
to  his  wife,  that  he  should  hide  his  soul  and  his  con- 
science from  his  wife  to  reveal  them  to  the  first  pretty 
face  he  came  across.  What  harm  had  his  wife  done 
him?  How  was  she  to  blame?  Long  ago  she  had 


The  Party  13 

been  sickened  by  his  lying:  he  was  for  ever  posing, 
flirting,  saying  what  he  did  not  think,  and  trying  to 
seem  different  from  what  he  was  and  what  he  ought 
to  be.  Why  this  falsity?  Was  it  seemly  in  a  decent 
man?  If  he  lied  he  was  demeaning  himself  and 
those  to  whom  he  lied,  and  slighting  what  he  lied 
about.  Could  he  not  understand  that  if  he  swag- 
gered and  posed  at  the  judicial  table,  or  held  forth 
at  dinner  on  the  prerogatives  of  Government,  that 
he,  simply  to  provoke  her  uncle,  was  showing  thereby 
that  he  had  not  a  ha'p'orth  of  respect  for  the  Court, 
or  himself,  or  any  of  the  people  who  were  listening 
and  looking  at  him? 

Coming  out  into  the  big  avenue,  Olga  Mihalovna 
assumed  an  expression  of  face  as  though  she  had  just 
gone  away  to  look  after  some  domestic  matter.  In 
the  verandah  the  gentlemen  were  drinking  liqueur 
and  eating  strawberries:  one  of  them,  the  Examining 
Magistrate  —  a  stout  elderly  man,  blagueur  and  wit 
—  must  have  been  telling  some  rather  free  anecdote, 
for,  seeing  their  hostess,  he  suddenly  clapped  his 
hands  over  his  fat  lips,  rolled  hi?  eyes,  and  sat  down. 
Olga  Mihalovna  did  not  like  the  local  officials.  She 
did  not  care  for  their  clumsy,  ceremonious  wives, 
their  scandal-mongering,  their  frequent  visits,  their 
flattery  of  her  husband,  whom  they  all  hated.  Now, 
when  they  were  drinking,  were  replete  with  food  and 
showed  no  signs  of  going  away,  she  felt  their  prcs- 


14        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

ence  an  agonizing  weariness;  but  not  to  appear  im- 
polite, she  smiled  cordially  to  the  Magistrate,  and 
shook  her  finger  at  him.  She  walked  across  the 
dining-room  and  drawing-room  smiling,  and  looking 
as  though  she  had  gone  to  give  some  order  and  make 
some  arrangement.  "  God  grant  no  one  stops  me," 
she  thought,  but  she  forced  herself  to  stop  in  the 
drawing-room  to  listen  from  politeness  to  a  young 
man  who  was  sitting  at  the  piano  playing:  after 
standing  for  a  minute,  she  cried,  "  Bravo,  bravo,  M. 
Georges!  "  and  clapping  her  hands  twice,  she  went 
on. 

She  found  her  husband  in  his  study.  He  was 
sitting  at  the  table,  thinking  of  something.  His  face 
looked  stern,  thoughtful,  and  guilty.  This  was  not 
the  same  Pyotr  Dmitritch  who  had  been  arguing  at 
dinner  and  whom  his  guests  knew,  but  a  different 
man  —  wearied,  feeling  guilty  and  dissatisfied  with 
himself,  whom  nobody  knew  but  his  wife.  He  must 
have  come  to  the  study  to  get  cigarettes.  Before 
him  lay  an  open  cigarette-case  full  of  cigarettes,  and 
one  of  his  hands  was  in  the  table  drawer;  he  had 
paused  and  sunk  into  thought  as  he  was  taking  the 
cigarettes. 

Olga  Mihalovna  felt  sorry  for  him.  It  was  as 
clear  as  day  that  this  man  was  harassed,  could  find 
no  rest,  and  was  perhaps  struggling  with  himself. 
Olga  Mihalovna  went  up  to  the  table  in  silence: 


The  Party  15 

wanting  to  show  that  she  had  forgotten  the  argument 
at  dinner  and  was  not  cross,  she  shut  the  cigarette- 
case  and  put  it  in  her  husband's  coat  pocket. 

"  What  should  I  say  to  him?  "  she  wondered;  "  I 
shall  say  that  lying  is  like  a  forest  —  the  further  one 
goes  into  it  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  get  out  of  it.  I 
will  say  to  him,  '  You  have  been  carried  away  by 
the  false  part  you  are  playing;  you  have  insulted 
people  who  were  attached  to  you  and  have  done  you 
no  harm.  Go  and  apologize  to  them,  laugh  at  your- 
self, and  you  will  feel  better.  And  if  you  want 
peace  and  solitude,  let  us  go  away  together.'  ' 

Meeting  his  wife's  gaze,  Pyotr  Dmitritch's  face 
immediately  assumed  the  expression  it  had  worn  at 
dinner  and  in  the  garden  —  indifferent  and  slightly 
ironical.  He  yawned  and  got  up. 

"  It's  past  five,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"  If  our  visitors  are  merciful  and  leave  us  at  eleven, 
even  then  we  have  another  six  hours  of  it.  It's  a 
cheerful  prospect,  there's  no  denying!  " 

And  whistling  something,  he  walked  slowly  out  of 
the  study  with  his  usual  dignified  gait.  She  could 
hear  him  with  dignified  firmness  cross  the  dining- 
room,  then  the  drawing-room,  laugh  with  dignified 
assurance,  and  say  to  the  young  man  who  was  play- 
ing, "Bravo!  bravo!"  Soon  his  footsteps  died 
away:  he  must  have  gone  out  into  the  garden.  And 
now  not  jealousy,  not  vexation,  but  real  hatred  of 


16        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

his  footsteps,  his  insincere  laugh  and  voice,  took  pos- 
session of  Olga  Mihalovna.  She  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  out  into  the  garden.  Pyotr  Dmi- 
tritch  was  already  walking  along  the  avenue.  Put- 
ting one  hand  in  his  pocket  and  snapping  the 
fingers  of  the  other,  he  walked  with  confident  swing- 
ing steps,  throwing  his  head  back  a  little,  and  look- 
ing as  though  he  were  very  well  satisfied  with  him- 
self, with  his  dinner,  with  his  digestion,  and  with 
nature.  .  .  . 

Two  little  schoolboys,  the  children  of  Madame 
Tchizhevsky,  who  had  only  just  arrived,  made  their 
appearance  in  the  avenue,  accompanied  by  their 
tutor,  a  student  wearing  a  white  tunic  and  very  nar- 
row trousers.  When  they  reached  Pyotr  Dmitritch, 
the  boys  and  the  student  stopped,  and  probably  con- 
gratulated him  on  his  name-day.  With  a  graceful 
swing  of  his  shoulders,  he  patted  the  children  on 
their  cheeks,  and  carelessly  offered  the  student  his 
hand  without  looking  at  him.  The  student  must 
have  praised  the  weather  and  compared  it  with  the 
climate  of  Petersburg,  for  Pyotr  Dmitritch  said  in 
a  loud  voice,  in  a  tone  as  though  he  were  not  speak- 
ing to  a  guest,  but  to  an  usher  of  the  court  or  a 
witness : 

"What!  It's  cold  in  Petersburg?  And  here, 
my  good  sir,  we  have  a  salubrious  atmosphere  and 
the  fruits  of  the  earth  in  abundance.  Eh?  What?" 


The  Party  17 

And  thrusting  one  hand  in  his  pocket  and  snap- 
ping the  fingers  of  the  other,  he  walked  on.  Till 
he  had  disappeared  behind  the  nut  bushes,  Olga 
Mihalovna  watched  the  back  of  his  head  in  per- 
plexity. How  had  this  man  of  thirty-four  come  by 
the  dignified  deportment  of  a  general?  How  had 
he  come  by  that  impressive,  elegant  manner? 
Where  had  he  got  that  vibration  of  authority  in  his 
voice?  Where  had  he  got  these  "  what's,"  "  to  be 
sure's,"  and  "  my  good  sir's  "  ? 

Olga  Mihalovna  remembered  how  in  the  first 
months  of  her  marriage  she  had  felt  dreary  at  home 
alone  and  had  driven  into  the  town  to  the  Circuit 
Court,  at  which  Pyotr  Dmitritch  had  sometimes  pre- 
sided in  place  of  her  godfather,  Count  Alexey  Petro- 
vitch.  In  the  presidential  chair,  wearing  his  uni- 
form and  a  chain  on  his  breast,  he  was  completely 
changed.  Stately  gestures,  a  voice  of  thunder, 
"  what,"  "  to  be  sure,"  careless  tones.  .  .  .  Every- 
thing, all  that  was  ordinary  and  human,  all  that  was 
individual  and  personal  to  himself  that  Olga  Miha- 
lovna was  accustomed  to  seeing  in  him  at  home, 
vanished  in  grandeur,  and  in  the  presidential  chair 
there  sat  not  Pyotr  Dmitritch,  but  another  man 
whom  every  one  called  Mr.  President.  This  con- 
sciousness of  power  prevented  him  from  sitting  still 
in  his  place,  and  he  seized  every  opportunity  to 
ring  his  bell,  to  glance  sternly  at  the  public,  to 


i8       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

shout.  .  .  .  Where  had  he  got  his  short-sight  and 
his  deafness  when  he  suddenly  began  to  see  and  hear 
with  difficulty,  and,  frowning  majestically,  insisted 
on  people  speaking  louder  and  coming  closer  to  the 
table?  From  the  height  of  his  grandeur  he  could 
hardly  distinguish  faces  or  sounds,  so  that  it  seemed 
that  if  Olga  Mihalovna  herself  had  gone  up  to  him 
he  would  have  shouted  even  to  her,  "  Your  name?  " 
Peasant  witnesses  he  addressed  familiarly,  he 
shouted  at  the  public  so  that  his  voice  could  be  heard 
even  in  the  street,  and  behaved  incredibly  with  the 
lawyers.  If  a  lawyer  had  to  speak  to  him,  Pyotr 
Dmitritch,  turning  a  little  away  from  him,  looked 
with  half-closed  eyes  at  the  ceiling,  meaning  to  sig- 
nify thereby  that  the  lawyer  was  utterly  superfluous 
and  that  he  was  neither  recognizing  him  nor  listen- 
ing to  him;  if  a  badly-dressed  lawyer  spoke,  Pyotr 
Dmitritch  pricked  up  his  ears  and  looked  the  man  up 
and  down  with  a  sarcastic,  annihilating  stare  as 
though  to  say:  "Queer  sort  of  lawyers  nowa- 
days!" 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  "  he  would  inter- 
rupt. 

If  a  would-be  eloquent  lawyer  mispronounced  a 
foreign  word,  saying,  for  instance,  "  factitious " 
instead  of  "  fictitious,"  Pyotr  Dmitritch  brightened 
up  at  once  and  asked,  "  What?  How?  Factitious? 
What  does  that  mean?  "  and  then  observed  imprcs- 


The  Party  19 

sively:  "  Don't  make  use  of  words  you  do  not  un- 
derstand." And  the  lawyer,  finishing  his  speech, 
would  walk  away  from  the  table,  red  and  perspiring, 
while  Pyotr  Dmitritch,  with  a  self-satisfied  smile, 
would  lean  back  in  his  chair  triumphant.  In  his 
manner  with  the  lawyers  he  imitated  Count  Alexey 
Petrovitch  a  little,  but  when  the  latter  said,  for  in- 
stance, "  Counsel  for  the  defence,  you  keep  quiet 
for  a  little  !  "  it  sounded  paternally  good-natured  and 
natural,  while  the  same  words  in  Pyotr  Dmitritch's 
mouth  were  rude  and  artificial. 


II 

There  were  sounds  of  applause.  The  young  man 
had  finished  playing.  Olga  Mihalovna  remembered 
her  guests  and  hurried  into  the  drawing-room. 

u  I  have  so  enjoyed  your  playing,"  she  said,  going 
up  to  the  piano.  "  I  have  so  enjoyed  it.  You  have 
a  wonderful  talent !  But  don't  you  think  our  piano's 
out  of  tune?  " 

At  that  moment  the  two  schoolboys  walked  into 
the  room,  accompanied  by  the  student. 

"  My  goodness!  Mitya  and  Kolya,"  Olga  Miha- 
lovna drawled  joyfully,  going  to  meet  them: 
"  How  big  they  have  grown  1  One  would  not  know 
you  !  But  where  is  your  mamma  ?  " 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  the  name-day,"  the  stu- 


20        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

dent  began  in  a  free-and-easy  tone,  "  and  I  wish  you 
all  happiness.  Ekaterina  Andreyevna  sends  her  con- 
gratulations and  begs  you  to  excuse  her.  She  is  not 
very  well." 

"  How  unkind  of  her !  I  have  been  expecting  her 
all  day.  Is  it  long  since  you  left  Petersburg?  "  Olga 
Mihalovna  asked  the  student.  "  What  kind  of 
weather  have  you  there  now?  "  And  without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer,  she  looked  cordially  at  the  school- 
boys and  repeated: 

"  How  tall  they  have  grown !  It  is  not  long  since 
they  used  to  come  with  their  nurse,  and  they  are  at 
school  already!  The  old  grow  older  while  the 
young  grow  up.  .  .  .  Have  you  had  dinner?  " 

"  Oh,  please  don't  trouble !  "  said  the  student. 

"  Why,  you  have  not  had  dinner?  " 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  don't  trouble !  " 

"But  I  suppose  you  are  hungry?"  Olga  Miha- 
lovna said  it  in  a  harsh,  rude  voice,  with  impatience 
and  vexation  —  it  escaped  her  unawares,  but  at  once 
she  coughed,  smiled,  and  flushed  crimson.  "  How 
tall  they  have  grown !  "  she  said  softly. 

"Please  don't  trouble!"  the  student  said  once 
more. 

The  student  begged  her  not  to  trouble ;  the  boys 
said  nothing;  obviously  all  three  of  them  were  hun- 
gry. Olga  Mihalovna  took  them  into  the  dining- 
room  and  told  Vassily  to  lay  the  table. 


The  Party  21 

"  How  unkind  of  your  mamma !  "  she  said  as  she 
made  them  sit  down.  "  She  has  quite  forgotten  me. 
Unkind,  unkind,  unkind  .  .  .  you  must  tell  her  so. 
What  are  you  studying? "  she  asked  the  stu- 
dent. 

"  Medicine." 

"  Well,  I  have  a  weakness  for  doctors,  only  fancy. 
I  am  very  sorry  my  husband  is  not  a  doctor.  What 
courage  any  one  must  have  to  perform  an  opera- 
tion or  dissect  a  corpse,  for  instance !  Horrible ! 
Aren't  you  frightened?  I  believe  I  should  die  of 
terror!  Of  course,  you  drink  vodka?" 

"  Please  don't  trouble." 

"  After  your  journey  you  must  have  something  to 
drink.  Though  I  am  a  woman,  even  I  drink  some- 
times. And  Mitya  and  Kolya  will  diink  Malaga. 
It's  not  a  strong  wine;  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  it. 
What  fine  fellows  they  are,  really!  They'll  be 
thinking  of  getting  married  next." 

Olga  Mihalovna  talked  without  ceasing;  she  knew 
by  experience  that  when  she  had  guests  to  entertain 
it  was  far  easier  and  more  comfortable  to  talk  than 
to  listen.  When  you  talk  there  is  no  need  to  strain 
your  attention  to  think  of  answers  to  questions,  and 
to  change  your  expression  of  face.  But  unawares 
she  asked  the  student  a  serious  question;  the  stu- 
dent began  a  lengthy  speech  and  she  was  forced  to 
listen.  The  student  knew  that  she  had  once  been 


22        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

at  the  University,  and  so  tried  to  seem  a  serious  per- 
son as  he  talked  to  her. 

'  What  subject  are  you  studying?  "  she  asked,  for- 
getting that  she  had  already  put  that  question  to 
him. 

"  Medicine." 

Olga  Mihalovna  now  remembered  that  she  had 
been  away  from  the  ladies  for  a  long  while. 

"Yes?  Then  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  be  a 
doctor?"  she  said,  getting  up.  "That's  splendid. 
I  am  sorry  I  did  not  go  in  for  medicine  myself.  So 
you  will  finish  your  dinner  here,  gentlemen,  and  then 
come  into  the  garden.  I  will  introduce  you  to  the 
young  ladies." 

She  went  out  and  glanced  at  her  watch :  it  was 
five  minutes  to  six.  And  she  wondered  that  the  time 
had  gone  so  slowly,  and  thought  with  horror  that 
there  were  six  more  hours  before  midnight,  when  the 
party  would  break  up.  How  could  she  get  through 
those  six  hours?  What  phrases  could  she  utter? 
How  should  she  behave  to  her  husband? 

There  was  not  a  soul  in  the  drawing-room  or  on 
the  verandah.  All  the  guests  were  sauntering  about 
the  garden. 

"  I  shall  have  to  suggest  a  walk  in  the  birch- 
wood  before  tea,  or  else  a  row  in  the  boats,"  thought 
Olga  Mihalovna,  hurrying  to  the  croquet  ground, 
from  which  came  the  sounds  of  voices  and  laughter. 


The  Party  23 

"  And  sit  the  old  people  down  to  vint.  .  .  ." 
She  met  Grigory  the  footman  coming  from  the 
croquet  ground  with  empty  bottles. 

"Where  are  the  ladies?  "  she  asked. 

"  Among  the  raspberry-bushes.  The  master's 
there,  too." 

"  Oh,  good  heavens!  "  some  one  on  the  croquet 
lawn  shouted  with  exasperation.  "  I  have  told  you 
a  thousand  times  over!  To  know  the  Bulgarians 
you  must  see  them!  You  can't  judge  from  the 
papers! " 

Either  because  of  the  outburst  or  for  some  other 
reason,  Olga  Mihalovna  was  suddenly  aware  of  a 
terrible  weakness  all  over,  especially  in  her  legs  and 
in  her  shoulders.  She  felt  she  could  not  bear  to 
speak,  to  listen,  or  to  move. 

"  Grigory,"  she  said  faintly  and  with  an  effort, 
"  when  you  have  to  serve  tea  or  anything,  please 
don't  appeal  to  me,  don't  ask  me  anything,  don't 
speak  of  anything.  ...  Do  it  all  yourself,  and  .  .  . 
and  don't  make  a  noise  with  your  feet,  I  entreat 
you.  ...  I  can't,  because  .  .  ." 

Without  finishing,  she  walked  on  towards  the 
croquet  lawn,  but  on  the  way  she  thought  of  the 
ladies,  and  turned  towards  the  raspberry-bushes. 
The  sky,  the  air,  and  the  trees  looked  gloomy  again 
and  threatened  rain;  it  was  hot  and  stifling.  An  im- 
mense flock  of  crows,  foreseeing  a  storm,  flew  caw- 


24       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

ing  over  the  garden.  The  paths-  were  more  over- 
grown, darker,  and  narrower  as  they  got  nearer  the 
kitchen  garden.  In  one  of  them,  buried  in  a  thick 
tangle  of  wild  pear,  crab-apple,  sorrel,  young  oaks, 
and  hopbine,  clouds  of  tiny  black  flies  swarmed  round 
Olga  Mihalovna.  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  began  forcing  herself  to  think  of  the  little 
creature.  .  .  .  There  floated  through  her  imagina- 
tion the  figures  of  Grigory,  Mitya,  Kolya,  the  faces 
of  the  peasants  who  had  come  in  the  morning  to 
present  their  congratulations.  .  .  . 

She  heard  footsteps,  and  she  opened  her  eyes. 
Uncle  Nikolay  Nikolaitch  was  coming  rapidly 
towards  her. 

"  It's  you,  dear?  I  am  very  glad  .  .  ."  he  be- 
gan, breathless.  "  A  couple  of  words.  .  .  ."  He 
mopped  with  his  handkerchief  his  red  shaven  chin, 
then  suddenly  stepped  back  a  pace,  flung  up  his 
hands  and  opened  his  eyes  wide.  "  My  dear  girl, 
how  long  is  this  going  on?  "  he  said  rapidly,  splut- 
tering. "  I  ask  you:  is  there  no  limit  to  it?  I  say 
nothing  of  the  demoralizing  effect  of  his  martinet 
views  on  all  around  him,  of  the  way  he  insults  all  that 
is  sacred  and  best  in  me  and  in  every  honest  think- 
ing man  —  I  will  say  nothing  about  that,  but  he 
might  at  least  behave  decently !  Why,  he  shouts,  he 
bellows,  gives  himself  airs,  poses  as  a  sort  of  Bona- 
parte, does  not  let  one  say  a  word.  ...  I  don't 


The  Party  25 

know  what  the  devil's  the  matter  with  himl  These 
lordly  gestures,  this  condescending  tone;  and  laugh- 
ing like  a  general !  Who  is  he,  allow  me  to  ask  you  ? 
I  ask  you,  who  is  he?  The  husband  of  his  wife, 
with  a  few  paltry  acres  and  the  rank  of  a  titular 
who  has  had  the  luck  to  marry  an  heiress !  An  up- 
start and  a  junker,  like  so  many  others !  A  type  out 
of  Shtchedrin!  Upon  my  word,  it's  either  that  he's 
suffering  from  megalomania,  or  that  old  rat  in  his 
dotage,  Count  Alexey  Petrovitch,  is  right  when  he 
says  that  children  and  young  people  are  a  long  time 
growing  up  nowadays,  and  go  on  playing  they  are 
cabmen  and  generals  till  they  are  forty!  " 

"  That's  true,  that's  true,"  Olga  Mihalovna  as- 
sented. "  Let  me  pass." 

"  Now  just  consider:  what  is  it  leading  to?  "  her 
uncle  went  on,  barring  her  way.  "  How  will  this 
playing  at  being  a  general  and  a  Conservative  end? 
Already  he  has  got  into  trouble!  Yes,  to  stand  his 
trial !  I  am  very  glad  of  it !  That's  what  his  noise 
and  shouting  has  brought  him  to  —  to  stand  in  the 
prisoner's  dock.  And  it's  not  as  though  it  were 
the  Circuit  Court  or  something:  it's  the  Central 
Court!  Nothing  worse  could  be  imagined,  I  think! 
And  then  he  has  quarrelled  with  every  one !  He  is 
celebrating  his  name-day,  and  look,  Vostryakov's  not 
here,  nor  Yahontov,  nor  Vladimirov,  nor  Shevud, 
nor  the  Count.  .  .  .  There  is  no  one,  I  imagine, 


26        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

more  Conservative  than  Count  Alexey  Petrovitch, 
yet  even  he  has  not  come.  And  he  never  will  come 
again.  He  won't  come,  you  will  see  1  " 

"  My  God  1  but  what  has  it  to  do  with  me  ?  "  asked 
Olga  Mihalovna. 

"  What  has  it  to  do  with  you?  Why,  you  are 
his  wife!  You  are  clever,  you  have  had  a  univer- 
sity education,  and  it  was  in  your  power  to  make  him 
an  honest  worker!  " 

"  At  the  lectures  I  went  to  they  did  not  teach  us 
how  to  influence  tiresome  people.  It  seems  as 
though  I  should  have  to  apologize  to  all  of  you  for 
having  been  at  the  University,"  said  Olga  Mihalovna 
sharply.  "  Listen,  uncle.  If  people  played  the 
same  scales  over  and  over  again  the  whole  day  long 
in  your  hearing,  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  sit  still  and 
listen,  but  would  run  away.  I  hear  the  same  thing 
over  again  for  days  together  all  the  year  round. 
You  must  have  pity  on  me  at  last." 

Her  uncle  pulled  a  very  long  face,  then  looked  at 
her  searchingly  and  twisted  his  lips  into  a  mocking 
smile. 

"  So  that's  how  it  is,"  he  piped  in  a  voice  like  an 
old  woman's.  "  I  beg  your  pardon!  "  he  said,  and 
made  a  ceremonious  bow.  "  If  you  have  fallen 
under  his  influence  yourself,  and  have  abandoned 
your  convictions,  you  should  have  said  so  before.  I 
beg  your  pardon!  " 


The  Party  27 

"  Yes,  I  have  abandoned  my  convictions,"  she 
cried.  "  There ;  make  the  most  of  it !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon!  " 

Her  uncle  for  the  last  time  made  her  a  cere- 
monious bow,  a  little  on  one  side,  and,  shrinking 
into  himself,  made  a  scrape  with  his  foot  and  walked 
back. 

"  Idiot !  "  thought  Olga  Mihalovna.  "  I  hope  he 
will  go  home." 

She  found  the  ladies  and  the  young  people  among 
the  raspberries  in  the  kitchen  garden.  Some  were 
eating  raspberries;  others,  tired  of  eating  raspber- 
ries, were  strolling  about  the  strawberry  beds  or 
foraging  among  the  sugar-peas.  A  little  on  one 
side  of  the  raspberry  bed,  near  a  branching  apple- 
tree  propped  up  by  posts  which  had  been  pulled  out 
of  an  old  fence,  Pyotr  Dmitritch  was  mowing  the 
grass.  His  hair  was  falling  over  his  forehead,  his 
cravat  was  untied.  His  watch-chain  was  hanging 
loose.  Every  step  and  every  swing  of  the  scythe 
showed  skill  and  the  possession  of  immense  physical 
strength.  Near  him  were  standing  Lubotchka  and 
the  daughters  of  a  neighbour,  Colonel  Bukryeev  — 
two  anaemic  and  unhealthily  stout  fair  girls,  Natalya 
and  Valentina,  or,  as  they  were  always  called,  Xata 
and  Vata,  both  wearing  white  frocks  and  strikingly 
like  each  other.  Pyotr  Dmitritch  was  teaching  them 
to  mow. 


28       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  It's  very  simple,"  he  said.  "  You  have  only  to 
know  how  to  hold  the  scythe  and  not  to  get  too  hot 
over  it  —  that  is,  not  to  use  more  force  than  is  neces- 
sary! Like  this.  .  .  .  Wouldn't  you  like  to  try?" 
he  said,  offering  the  scythe  to  Lubotchka. 
"Come!" 

Lubotchka  took  the  scythe  clumsily,  blushed  crim- 
son, and  laughed. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Lubov  Alexandrovna!  "  cried 
Olga  Mihalovna,  loud  enough  for  all  the  ladies  to 
hear  that  she  was  with  them.  "  Don't  be  afraid! 
You  must  learn!  If  you  marry  a  Tolstoyan  he  will 
make  you  mow." 

Lubotchka  raised  the  scythe,  but  began  laughing 
again,  and,  helpless  with  laughter,  let  go  of  it  at 
once.  She  was  ashamed  and  pleased  at  being  talked 
to  as  though  grown  up.  Nata,  with  a  cold,  serious 
face,  with  no  trace  of  smiling  or  shyness,  took  the 
scythe,  swung  it  and  caught  it  in  the  grass;  Vata, 
also  without  a  smile,  as  cold  and  serious  as  her  sister, 
took  the  scythe,  and  silently  thrust  it  into  the  earth. 
Having  done  this,  the  two  sisters  linked  arms  and 
walked  in  silence  to  the  raspberries. 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  laughed  and  played  about  like  a 
boy,  and  this  childish,  frolicsome  mood  in  which  he 
became  exceedingly  good-natured  suited  him  far  bet- 
ter than  any  other.  Olga  Mihalovna  loved  him 
when  he  was  like  that.  But  his  boyishness  did  not 


The  Party  29 

usually  last  long.  It  did  not  this  time ;  after  playing 
with  the  scythe,  he  for  some  reason  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  take  a  serious  tone  about  it. 

1  When  I  am  mowing,  I  feel,  do  you  know, 
healthier  and  more  normal,"  he  said.  "  If  I  were 
forced  to  confine  myself  to  an  intellectual  life  I  be- 
lieve I  should  go  out  of  my  mind.  I  feel  that  I  was 
not  born  to  be  a  man  of  culture!  I  ought  to  mow, 
plough,  sow,  drive  out  the  horses." 

And  Pyotr  Dmitritch  began  a  conversation  with 
the  ladies  about  the  advantages  of  physical  labour, 
about  culture,  and  then  about  the  pernicious  effects 
of  money,  of  property.  Listening  to  her  husband, 
Olga  Mihalovna,  for  some  reason,  thought  of  her 
dowry. 

"  And  the  time  will  come,  I  suppose,"  she  thought, 
"  when  he  will  not  forgive  me  for  being  richer  than 
he.  He  is  proud  and  vain.  Maybe  he  will  hate 
me  because  he  owes  so  much  to  me." 

She  stopped  near  Colonel  Bukryeev,  who  was 
eating  raspberries  and  also  taking  part  in  the  con- 
versation. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  making  room  for  Olga  Miha- 
lovna and  Pyotr  Dmitritch.  "  The  ripest  are 
here.  .  .  .  And  so,  according  to  Proudhon,"  he 
went  on,  raising  his  voice,  "  property  is  robbery. 
But  I  must  confess  I  don't  believe  in  Proudhon,  and 
don't  consider  him  a  philosopher.  The  French  are 


30       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

not  authorities,  to  my  thinking  —  God  bless  them  I  " 

'  Well,  as  for  Proudhons  and  Buckles  and  the 
rest  of  them,  I  am  weak  in  that  department,"  said 
Pyotr  Dmitritch.  "  For  philosophy  you  must  apply 
to  my  wife.  She  has  been  at  University  lectures  and 
knows  all  your  Schopenhauers  and  Proudhons  by 
heart.  .  .  ." 

Olga  Mihalovna  felt  bored  again.  She  walked 
again  along  a  little  path  by  apple  and  pear  trees, 
and  looked  again  as  though  she  was  on  some  very 
important  errand.  She  reached  the  gardener's  cot- 
tage. In  the  doorway  the  gardener's  wife,  Varvara, 
was  sitting  together  with  her  four  little  children  with 
big  shaven  heads.  Varvara,  too,  was  with  child  and 
expecting  to  be  confined  on  Elijah's  Day.  After 
greeting  her,  Olga  Mihalovna  looked  at  her  and  the 
children  in  silence  and  asked: 

"Well,  how  do  you  feel?" 

"  Oh,  all  right.  .  .  ." 

A  silence  followed.  The  two  women  seemed  to 
understand  each  other  without  words. 

"  It's  dreadful  having  one's  first  baby,"  said  Olga 
Mihalovna  after  a  moment's  thought.  "  I  keep 
feeling  as  though  I  shall  not  get  through  It,  as 
though  I  shall  die." 

"  I  fancied  that,  too,  but  here  I  am  alive.  .  .  . 
One  has  all  sorts  of  fancies." 

Varvara,  who  was  just  going  to  have  her  fifth, 


The  Party  31 

looked  down  a  little  on  her  mistress  from  the  height 
of  her  experience  and  spoke  in  a  rather  didactic  tone, 
and  Olga  Mihalovna  could  not  help  feeling  her  au- 
thority; she  would  have  liked  to  have  talked  of  her 
fears,  of  the  child,  of  her  sensations,  but  she  was 
afraid  it  might  strike  Varvara  as  naive  and  trivial. 
And  she  waited  in  silence  for  Varvara  to  say  some- 
thing herself. 

"  Olya,  we  are  going  indoors,"  Pyotr  Dmitritch 
called  from  the  raspberries. 

Olga  Mihalovna  liked  being  silent,  waiting  and 
watching  Varvara.  She  would  have  been  ready  to 
stay  like  that  till  night  without  speaking  or  having 
any  duty  to  perform.  But  she  had  to  go.  She  had 
hardly  left  the  cottage  when  Lubotchka,  Nata,  and 
Vata  came  running  to  meet  her.  The  sisters 
stopped  short  abruptly  a  couple  of  yards  away; 
Lubotchka  ran  right  up  to  her  and  flung  herself  on 
her  neck. 

'  You  dear,  darling,  precious,"  she  said,  kissing 
her  face  and  her  neck.  "  Let  us  go  and  have  tea 
on  the  island !  " 

"  On  the  island,  on  the  island!  "  said  the  precisely 
similar  Nata  and  Vata,  both  at  once,  without  a  smile. 

"  But  it's  going  to  rain,  my  dears." 

11  It's  not,  it's  not,"  cried  Lubotchka  with  a  woe- 
begone face.  '  They've  all  agreed  to  go.  Dear ! 
darling!  " 


32       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

11  They  are  all  getting  ready  to  have  tea  on  the 
island,"  said  Pyotr  Dmitritch,  coming  up.  "  See  to 
arranging  things.  .  .  .  We  will  all  go  in  the  boat*, 
and  the  samovars  and  all  the  rest  of  it  must  be  sent 
in  the  carriage  with  the  servants." 

He  walked  beside  his  wife  and  gave  her  his  arm. 
Olga  Mihalovna  had  a  desire  to  say  something  dis- 
agreeable to  her  husband,  something  biting,  even 
about  her  dowry  perhaps  —  the  crueller  the  better, 
she  felt.  She  thought  a  little,  and  said: 

"  Why  is  it  Count  Alexey  Petrovitch  hasn't  come? 
What  a  pity!  " 

"  I  am  very  glad  he  hasn't  come,"  said  Pyotr 
Dmitritch,  lying.  "  I'm  sick  to  death  of  that  old 
lunatic." 

"  But  yet  before  dinner  you  were  expecting  him 
so  eagerly!  " 

III 

Half  an  hour  later  all  the  guests  were  crowding 
on  the  bank  near  the  pile  to  which  the  boats  were 
fastened.  They  were  all  talking  and  laughing,  and 
were  in  such  excitement  and  commotion  that  they 
could  hardly  get  into  the  boats.  Three  boats  were 
crammed  with  passengers,  while  two  stood  empty. 
The  keys  for  unfastening  these  two  boats  had  been 
somehow  mislaid,  and  messengers  were  continually 


The  Party  33 

running  from  the  river  to  the  house  to  look  for 
them.  Some  said  Grigory  had  the  keys,  others  that 
the  bailiff  had  them,  while  others  suggested  sending 
for  a  blacksmith  and  breaking  the  padlocks.  And 
all  talked  at  once,  interrupting  and  shouting  one  an- 
other down.  Pyotr  Dmitritch  paced  impatiently  to 
and  fro  on  the  bank,  shouting: 

"  What  the  devil's  the  meaning  of  it!  The  keys 
ought  always  to  be  lying  in  the  hall  window !  Who 
has  dared  to  take  them  away?  The  bailiff  can  get 
a  boat  of  his  own  if  he  wants  one !  " 

At  last  the  keys  were  found.  Then  It  appeared 
that  two  oars  were  missing.  Again  there  was  a 
great  hullabaloo.  Pyotr  Dmitritch,  who  was  weary 
of  pacing  about  the  bank,  jumped  into  a  long,  narrow 
boat  hollowed  out  of  the  trunk  of  a  poplar,  and, 
lurching  from  side  to  side  and  almost  falling  into 
the  water,  pushed  off  from  the  bank.  The  other 
boats  followed  him  one  after  another,  amid  loud 
laughter  and  the  shrieks  of  the  young  ladies. 

The  white  cloudy  sky,  the  trees  on  the  riverside, 
the  boats  with  the  people  in  them,  and  the  oars, 
were  reflected  in  the  water  as  in  a  mirror;  under 
the  boats,  far  away  below  in  the  bottomless  depths, 
was  a  second  sky  with  the  birds  flying  across  it. 
The  bank  on  which  the  house  and  gardens  stood 
was  high,  steep,  and  covered  with  trees;  on  the  other, 
which  was  sloping,  stretched  broad  green  water- 


34       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

meadows  with  sheets  of  water  glistening  in  them. 
The  boats  had  floated  a  hundred  yards  when,  behind 
the  mournfully  drooping  willows  on  the  sloping 
banks,  huts  and  a  herd  of  cows  came  into  sight;  they 
began  to  hear  songs,  drunken  shouts,  and  the  strains 
of  a  concertina. 

Here  and  there  on  the  river  fishing-boats  were 
scattered  about,  setting  their  nets  for  the  night.  In 
one  of  these  boats  was  the  festive  party,  playing  on 
home-made  violins  and  violoncellos. 

Olga  Mihalovna  was  sitting  at  the  rudder;  she 
was  smiling  affably  and  talking  a  great  deal  to  enter- 
tain her  visitors,  while  she  glanced  stealthily  at  her 
husband.  He  was  ahead  of  them  all,  standing  up 
punting  with  one  oar.  The  light  sharp-nosed  canoe, 
which  all  the  guests  called  the  "  death-trap  " —  while 
Pyotr  Dmitritch,  for  some  reason,  called  it  Pende- 
raklia  —  flew  along  quickly;  it  had  a  brisk,  crafty 
expression,  as  though  it  hated  its  heavy  occupant  and 
was  looking  out  for  a  favourable  moment  to  glide 
away  from  under  his  feet.  Olga  Mihalovna  kept 
looking  at  her  husband,  and  she  loathed  his  good 
looks  which  attracted  every  one,  the  back  of  his 
head,  his  attitude,  his  familiar  manner  with  women; 
she  hated  all  the  women  sitting  in  the  boat  with  her, 
was  jealous,  and  at  the  same  time  was  trembling 
every  minute  in  terror  that  the  frail  craft  would  up- 
set and  cause  an  accident. 


The  Party  35 

"  Take  care,  Pyotr !  "  she  cried,  while  her  heart 
fluttered  with  terror.  "Sit  downl  We  believe  in 
your  courage  without  all  that!  " 

She  was  worried,  too,  by  the  people  who  were 
in  the  boat  with  her.  They  were  all  ordinary  good 
sort  of  people  like  thousands  of  others,  but  now  each 
one  of  them  struck  her  as  exceptional  and  evil.  In 
each  one  of  them  she  saw  nothing  but  falsity. 
"  That  young  man,"  she  thought,  "  rowing,  in  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles,  with  chestnut  hair  and  a  nice- 
looking  beard:  he  is  a  mamma's  darling,  rich,  and 
well-fed,  and  always  fortunate,  and  every  one  con- 
siders him  an  honourable,  free-thinking,  advanced 
man.  It's  not  a  year  since  he  left  the  University 
and  came  to  live  in  the  district,  but  he  already  talks 
of  himself  as  '  we  active  members  of  the  Zemstvo.' 
But  in  another  year  he  will  be  bored  like  so  many 
others  and  go  off  to  Petersburg,  and  to  justify  run- 
ning away,  will  tell  every  one  that  the  Zemstvos 
are  good-for-nothing,  and  that  he  has  been  deceived 
in  them.  While  from  the  other  boat  his  young  wife 
keeps  her  eyes  fixed  on  him,  and  believes  that  he  is 
'  an  active  member  of  the  Zemstvo,'  just  as  in  a 
year  she  will  believe  that  the  Zemstvo  is  good-for- 
nothing.  And  that  stout,  carefully  shaven  gentle- 
man in  the  straw  hat  with  the  broad  ribbon,  with 
an  expensive  cigar  in  his  mouth:  he  is  fond  of  say- 
ing, '  It  is  time  to  put  away  dreams  and  set  to  work ! ' 


36        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

He  has  Yorkshire  pigs,  Butler's  hives,  rape-seed, 
pine-apples,  a  dairy,  a  cheese  factory,  Italian  book- 
keeping by  double  entry;  but  every  summer  he  sells 
his  timber  and  mortgages  part  of  his  land  to  spend 
the  autumn  with  his  mistress  in  the  Crimea.  And 
there's  Uncle  Nikolay  Nikolaitch,  who  has  quar- 
relled with  Pyotr  Dmitritch,  and  yet  for  some  rea- 
son does  not  go  home." 

Olga  Mihalovna  looked  at  the  other  boats,  and 
there,  too,  she  saw  only  uninteresting,  queer  crea- 
tures, affected  or  stupid  people.  She  thought  of 
all  the  people  she  knew  in  the  district,  and  could 
not  remember  one  person  of  whom  one  could  say 
or  think  anything  good.  They  all  seemed  to  her 
mediocre,  insipid,  unintelligent,  narrow,  false,  heart- 
less; they  all  said  what  they  did  not  think,  and  did 
what  they  did  not  want  to.  Dreariness  and  despair 
were  stifling  her;  she  longed  to  leave  off  smiling,  to 
leap  up  and  cry  out,  "  I  am  sick  of  you,"  and  then 
jump  out  and  swim  to  the  bank. 

"  I  say,  let's  take  Pyotr  Dmitritch  in  tow!  "  some 
one  shouted. 

"  In  tow,  in  tow!  "  the  others  chimed  in.  "  Olga 
Mihalovna,  take  your  husband  in  tow." 

To  take  him  in  tow,  Olga  Mihalovna,  who  was 
steering,  had  to  seize  the  right  moment  and  to  catch 
hold  of  his  boat  by  the  chain  at  the  beak.  When 


The  Party  37 

she  bent  over  to  the  chain  Pyotr  Dmitritch  frowned 
and  looked  at  her  in  alarm. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  catch  cold,"  he  said. 

"  If  you  are  uneasy  about  me  and  the  child,  why 
do  you  torment  me?  "  thought  Olga  Mihalovna. 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  acknowledged  himself  van- 
quished, and,  not  caring  to  be  towed,  jumped  from 
the  Penderaklla  into  the  boat  which  was  overfill  al- 
ready, and  jumped  so  carelessly  that  the  boat  lurched 
violently,  and  every  one  cried  out  in  terror. 

"  He  did  that  to  please  the  ladies,"  thought  Olga 
Mihalovna;  "  he  knows  it's  charming."  Her  hands 
and  feet  began  trembling,  as  she  supposed,  from 
boredom,  vexation  from  the  strain  of  smiling  and 
the  discomfort  she  felt  all  over  her  body.  And  to 
conceal  this  trembling  from  her  guests,  she  tried  to 
talk  more  loudly,  to  laugh,  to  move. 

"  If  I  suddenly  begin  to  cry,"  she  thought,  "  I 
shall  say  I  have  toothache.  .  .  ." 

But  at  last  the  boats  reached  the  "  Island  of  Good 
Hope,"  as  they  called  the  peninsula  formed  by  a 
bend  in  the  river  at  an  acute  angle,  covered  with  a 
copse  of  old  birch-trees,  oaks,  willows,  and  poplars. 
The  tables  were  already  laid  under  the  trees;  the 
samovars  were  smoking,  and  Vassily  and  Grigory, 
in  their  swallow-tails  and  white  knitted  gloves,  were 
already  busy  with  the  tea-things.  On  the  other 


38       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

bank,  opposite  the  "  Island  of  Good  Hope,"  there 
stood  the  carriages  which  had  come  with  the  pro- 
visions. The  baskets  and  parcels  of  provisions 
were  carried  across  to  the  island  in  a  little  boat  like 
the  Penderaklla.  The  footmen,  the  coachmen,  and 
even  the  peasant  who  was  sitting  in  the  boat,  had 
the  solemn  expression  befitting  a  name-day  such  as 
one  only  sees  in  children  and  servants. 

While  Olga  Mihalovna  was  making  the  tea  and 
pouring  out  the  first  glasses,  the  visitors  were  busy 
with  the  liqueurs  and  sweet  things.  Then  there 
was  the  general  commotion  usual  at  picnics  over 
drinking  tea,  very  wearisome  and  exhausting  for  the 
hostess.  Grigory  and  Vassily  had  hardly  had  time 
to  take  the  glasses  round  before  hands  were  being 
stretched  out  to  Olga  Mihalovna  with  empty  glasses. 
One  asked  for  no  sugar,  another  wanted  it  stronger, 
another  weak,  a  fourth  declined  another  glass.  And 
all  this  Olga  Mihalovna  had  to  remember,  and  then 
to  call,  "  Ivan  Petrovitch,  is  it  without  sugar  for 
you?"  or,  "Gentlemen,  which  of  you  wanted  it 
weak?  "  But  the  guest  who  had  asked  for  weak 
tea,  or  no  sugar,  had  by  now  forgotten  it,  and,  ab- 
sorbed in  agreeable  conversation,  took  the  first  glass 
that  came.  Depressed-looking  figures  wandered  like 
shadows  at  a  little  distance  from  the  table,  pretend- 
ing to  look  for  mushrooms  in  the  grass,  or  reading 
the  labels  on  the  boxes  —  these  were  those  for  whom 


The  Party  39 

there  were  not  glasses  enough.  "  Have  you  had 
tea?"  Olga  Mihalovna  kept  asking,  and  the  guest 
so  addressed  begged  her  not  to  trouble,  and  said, 
"  I  will  wait,"  though  it  would  have  suited  her 
better  for  the  visitors  not  to  wait  but  to  make 
haste. 

Some,  absorbed  in  conversation,  drank  their  tea 
slowly,  keeping  their  glasses  for  half  an  hour;  others, 
especially  some  who  had  drunk  a  good  deal  at  din- 
ner, would  not  leave  the  table,  and  kept  on  drink- 
ing glass  after  glass,  so  that  Olga  Mihalovna 
scarcely  had  time  to  fill  them.  One  jocular  young 
man  sipped  his  tea  through  a  lump  of  sugar,  and 
kept  saying,  "  Sinful  man  that  I  am,  I  love  to  in- 
dulge myself  with  the  Chinese  herb."  He  kept 
asking  with  a  heavy  sigh:  "Another  tiny  dish  of 
tea  more,  if  you  please."  He  drank  a  great  deal, 
nibbled  his  sugar,  and  thought  it  all  very  amusing 
and  original,  and  imagined  that  he  was  doing  a 
clever  imitation  of  a  Russian  merchant.  None  of 
them  understood  that  these  trifles  were  agonizing 
to  their  hostess,  and,  indeed,  it  was  hard  to  under- 
stand it,  as  Olga  Mihalovna  went  on  all  the  time 
smiling  affably  and  talking  nonsense. 

But  she  felt  ill.  .  .  .  She  was  irritated  by  the 
crowd  of  people,  the  laughter,  the  questions,  the 
jocular  young  man,  the  footmen  harassed  and  run 
off  their  legs,  the  children  who  hung  round  the 


40        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

table;  she  was  irritated  at  Vata's  being  like  Nata, 
at  Kolya's  being  like  Mitya,  so  that  one  could  not 
tell  which  of  them  had  had  tea  and  which  of  them 
had  not.  She  felt  that  her  smile  of  forced  affa- 
bility was  passing  into  an  expression  of  anger,  and 
she  felt  every  minute  as  though  she  would  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Rain,  my  friends,"  cried  some  one. 

Every  one  looked  at  the  sky. 

"  Yes,  it  really  is  rain  .  .  ."  Pyotr  Dmitritch  as- 
sented, and  wiped  his  cheek. 

Only  a  few  drops  were  falling  from  the  sky  —  the 
real  rain  had  not  begun  yet;  but  the  company  aban- 
doned their  tea  and  made  haste  to  get  off.  At  first 
they  all  wanted  to  drive  home  in  the  carriages,  but 
changed  their  minds  and  made  for  the  boats.  On 
the  pretext  that  she  had  to  hasten  home  to  give  di- 
rections about  the  supper,  Olga  Mihalovna  asked  to 
be  excused  for  leaving  the  others,  and  went  home 
in  the  carriage. 

When  she  got  into  the  carriage,  she  first  of  all 
let  her  face  rest  from  smiling.  With  an  angry 
face  she  drove  through  the  village,  and  with  an 
angry  face  acknowledged  the  bows  of  the  peasants 
she  met.  When  she  got  home,  she  went  to  the 
bedroom  by  the  back  way  and  lay  down  on  her  hus- 
band's bed. 

"  Merciful  God !  "  she  whispered.     "  What  is  all 


The  Party  41 

this  hard  labour  for?  Why  do  all  these  people 
hustle  each  other  here  and  pretend  that  they  are 
enjoying  themselves?  Why  do  I  smile  and  lie?  I 
don't  understand  it." 

She  heard  steps  and  voices.  The  visitors  had 
come  back. 

"  Let  them  come,"  thought  Olga  Mihalovna;  "  I 
shall  lie  a  little  longer." 

But  a  maid-servant  came  and  said: 

"  Marya  Grigoryevna  is  going,  madam." 

Olga  Mihalovna  jumped  up,  tidied  her  hair  and 
hurried  out  of  the  room. 

"  Marya  Grigoryevna,  what  is  the  meaning  of 
this?  "  she  began  in  an  injured  voice,  going  to  meet 
Marya  Grigoryevna.  "  Why  are  you  in  such  a 
hurry?" 

"I  can't  help  it,  darling!  I've  stayed  too  long 
as  it  is;  my  children  are  expecting  me  home." 

"  It's  too  bad  of  you !  Why  didn't  you  bring  your 
children  with  you?  " 

"  If  you  will  let  me,  dear,  I  will  bring  them  on 
some  ordinary  day,  but  to-day  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  please  do,"  Olga  Mihalovna  interrupted; 
"  I  shall  be  delighted  !  Your  children  are  so  sweet ! 
Kiss  them  all  for  me.  .  .  .  But,  really,  I  am  of- 
fended with  you !  I  don't  understand  why  you  are 
in  such  a  hurry!  " 

"  I   really  must,   I   really  must.  .  .  .  Good-bye, 


42        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

dear.     Take  care  of  yourself.     In  your  condition, 
you  know  .  .  ." 

And  the  ladies  kissed  each  other.  After  seeing 
the  departing  guest  to  her  carriage,  Olga  Mihalovna 
went  in  to  the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room.  There 
the  lamps  were  already  lighted  and  the  gentlemen 
were  sitting  down  to  cards. 

IV 

The  party  broke  up  after  supper  about  a  quarter 
past  twelve.  Seeing  her  visitors  off,  Olga  Miha- 
lovna stood  at  the  door  and  said: 

"You  really  ought  to  take  a  shawl!  It's  turn- 
ing a  little  chilly.  Please  God,  you  don't  catch 
cold!" 

"  Don't  trouble,  Olga  Mihalovna,"  the  ladies  an- 
swered as  they  got  into  the  carriage.  '  Well, 
good-bye.  Mind  now,  we  are  expecting  you;  don't 
play  us  false!  " 

"  Wo-o-o!  "  the  coachman  checked  the  horses. 

"  Ready,  Denis!     Good-bye,  Olga  Mihalovna!  " 

"  Kiss  the  children  for  me!  " 

The  carriage  started  and  immediately  disappeared 
into  the  darkness.  In  the  red  circle  of  light  cast 
by  the  lamp  in  the  road,  a  fresh  pair  or  trio  of 
impatient  horses,  and  the  silhouette,  of  a  coachman 
with  his  hands  held  out  stiffly  before  him,  would 


The  Party  43 

come  into  view.  Again  there  began  kisses,  re- 
proaches, and  entreaties  to  come  again  or  to  take 
a  shawl.  Pyotr  Dmitritch  kept  running  out  and 
helping  the  ladies  into  their  carriages. 

"  You  go  now  by  Efremovshtchina,"  he  directed 
the  coachman;  "it's  nearer  through  Mankino,  but 
the  road  is  worse  that  way.  You  might  have  an 
upset.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  my  charmer.  Mille  compli- 
ments to  your  artist!  " 

"Good-bye,  Olga  Mihalovna,  darling!  Go  in- 
doors, or  you  will  catch  cold!  It's  damp!  " 

"  Wo-o-o !  you  rascal !  " 

"  What  horses  have  you  got  here?  "  Pyotr  Dmit- 
ritch asked. 

"  They  were  bought  from  Haidorov,  in  Lent,"  an- 
swered the  coachman. 

"  Capital  horses.  .   .  ." 

And  Pyotr  Dmitritch  patted  the  trace  horse  on 
the  haunch. 

"Well,  you  can  start!  God  give  you  good 
luck!" 

The  last  visitor  was  gone  at  last;  the  red  circle  on 
the  road  quivered,  moved  aside,  contracted  and 
went  out,  as  Vassily  carried  away  the  lamp  from 
the  entrance.  On  previous  occasions  when  they  had 
seen  off  their  visitors,  Pyotr  Dmitritch  and  Olga 
Mihalovna  had  begun  dancing  about  the  drawing- 
room,  facing  each  other,  clapping  their  hands  and 


44        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

singing:  "They've  gone!  They've  gone!"  But 
now  Olga  Mihalovna  was  not  equal  to  that.  She 
went  to  her  bedroom,  undressed,  and  got  into  bed. 

She  fancied  she  would  fall  asleep  at  once  and 
sleep  soundly.  Her  legs  and  her  shoulders  ached 
painfully,  her  head  was  heavy  from  the  strain  of 
talking,  and  she  was  conscious,  as  before,  of  dis- 
comfort all  over  her  body.  Covering  her  head  over, 
she  lay  still  for  three  or  four  minutes,  then  peeped 
out  from  under  the  bed-clothes  at  the  lamp  before 
the  ikon,  listened  to  the  silence,  and  smiled. 

"  It's  nice,  it's  nice,"  she  whispered,  curling  up 
her  legs,  which  felt  as  if  they  had  grown  longer  from 
so  much  walking.  "  Sleep,  sleep.  .  .  ." 

Her  legs  would  not  get  into  a  comfortable  po- 
sition; she  felt  uneasy  all  over,  and  she  turned  on 
the  other  side.  A  big  fly  blew  buzzing  about  the 
bedroom  and  thumped  against  the  ceiling.  She 
could  hear,  too,  Grigory  and  Vassily  stepping  cau- 
tiously about  the  drawing-room,  putting  the  chairs 
back  in  their  places;  it  seemed  to  Olga  Mihalovna 
that  she  could  not  go  to  sleep,  nor  be  comfortable 
till  those  sounds  were  hushed.  And  again  she 
turned  over  on  the  other  side  impatiently. 

She  heard  her  husband's  voice  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Some  one  must  be  staying  the  night,  as 
Pyotr  Dmitritch  was  addressing  some  one  and 
speaking  loudly: 


The  Party  45 

"  I  don't  say  that  Count  Alexey  Petrovitch  is  an 
impostor.  But  he  can't  help  seeming  to  be  one, 
because  all  of  you  gentlemen  attempt  to  see  in  him 
something  different  from  what  he  really  is.  His 
craziness  is  looked  upon  as  originality,  his  familiar 
manners  as  good-nature,  and  his  complete  absence 
of  opinions  as  Conservatism.  Even  granted  that  he 
is  a  Conservative  of  the  stamp  of  '84,  what  after 
all  is  Conservatism?  " 

Pyotr  Dmitritch,  angry  with  Count  Alexey  Petro- 
vitch, his  visitors,  and  himself,  was  relieving  his 
heart.  He  abused  both  the  Count  and  his  visitors, 
and  in  his  vexation  with  himself  was  ready  to  speak 
out  and  to  hold  forth  upon  anything.  After  seeing 
his  guest  to  his  room,  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
drawing-room,  walked  through  the  dining-room, 
down  the  corridor,  then  into  his  study,  then  again 
went  into  the  drawing-room,  and  came  into  the  bed- 
room. Olga  Mihalovna  was  lying  on  her  back,  with 
the  bed-clothes  only  to  her  waist  (by  now  she  felt 
hot) ,  and  with  an  angry  face,  watched  the  fly  that 
was  thumping  against  the  ceiling. 

"  Is  some  one  staying  the  night?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yegorov." 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  undressed  and  got  into  his  bed. 
Without  speaking,  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  he,  too, 
fell  to  watching  the  fly.  There  was  an  uneasy  and 
forbidding  look  in  his  eyes.  Olga  Mihalovna 


46       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

looked  at  his  handsome  profile  for  five  minutes  in 
silence.  It  seemed  to  her  for  some  reason  that  if 
her  husband  were  suddenly  to  turn  facing  her,  and 
to  say,  "  Olga,  I  am  unhappy,"  she  would  cry  or 
laugh,  and  she  would  be  at  ease.  She  fancied  that 
her  legs  were  aching  and  her  body  was  uncomfort- 
able all  over  because  of  the  strain  on  her  feelings. 

"  Pyotr,  what  are  you  thinking  of?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  nothing  .  .  ."  her  husband  answered. 

"  You  have  taken  to  having  secrets  from  me  of 
late:  that's  not  right." 

"  Why  is  it  not  right?  "  answered  Pyotr  Dmitritch 
drily  and  not  at  once.  "  We  all  have  our  personal 
life,  every  one  of  us,  and  we  are  bound  to  have  our 
secrets." 

"  Personal  life,  our  secrets  .  .  .  that's  all  words! 
Understand  you  are  wounding  me  I"  said  Olga 
Mihalovna,  sitting  up  in  bed.  "  If  you  have  a  load 
on  your  heart,  why  do  you  hide  it  from  me?  And 
why  do  you  find  it  more  suitable  to  open  your  heart 
to  women  who  are  nothing  to  you,  instead  of  to 
your  wife?  I  overheard  your  outpourings  to  Lu- 
botchka  by  the  bee-house  to-day." 

"  Well,  I  congratulate  you.  I  am  glad  you  did 
overhear  it." 

This  meant  "  Leave  me  alone  and  let  me  think." 
Olga  Mihalovna  was  indignant.  Vexation,  hatred, 
and  wrath,  which  had  been  accumulating  within  her 


The  Party  47 

during  the  whole  day,  suddenly  boiled  over;  she 
wanted  at  once  to  speak  out,  to  hurt  her  husband 
without  putting  it  off  till  to-morrow,  to  wound  him, 
to  punish  him.  .  .  .  Making  an  effort  to  control 
herself  and  not  to  scream,  she  said: 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  then,  that  it's  all  loathsome, 
loathsome,  loathsome !  I've  been  hating  you  all 
day;  you  see  what  you've  done." 

Pyotr  Dmitritch,  too,  got  up  and  sat  on  the  bed. 

"  It's  loathsome,  loathsome,  loathsome,"  Olga 
Mihalovna  went  on,  beginning  to  tremble  all  over. 
"  There's  no  need  to  congratulate  me;  you  had  bet- 
ter congratulate  yourself!  It's  a  shame,  a  disgrace. 
You  have  wrapped  yourself  in  lies  till  you  are 
ashamed  to  be  alone  in  the  room  with  your  wife ! 
You  are  a  deceitful  man!  I  see  through  you  and 
understand  every  step  you  take !  " 

"  Olya,  I  wish  you  would  please  warn  me  when 
you  are  out  of  humour.  Then  I  will  sleep  in  the 
study." 

Saying  this,  Pyotr  Dmitritch  picked  up  his  pillow 
and  walked  out  of  the  bedroom.  Olga  Mihalovna 
had  not  foreseen  this.  For  some  minutes  she  re- 
mained silent  with  her  mouth  open,  trembling  all 
over  and  looking  at  the  door  by  which  her  husband 
had  gone  out,  and  trying  to  understand  what  it 
meant.  Was  this  one  of  the  devices  to  which  de- 
ceitful people  have  recourse  when  they  are  in  the 


48       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

wrong,  or  was  it  a  deliberate  insult  aimed  at  her 
pride?  How  was  she  to  take  it?  Olga  Mihalovna 
remembered  her  cousin,  a  lively  young  officer,  who 
often  used  to  tell  her,  laughing,  that  when  "  his 
spouse  nagged  at  him  "  at  night,  he  usually  picked 
up  his  pillow  and  went  whistling  to  spend  the  night 
in  his  study,  leaving  his  wife  in  a  foolish  and  ridicu- 
lous position.  This  officer  was  married  to  a  rich, 
capricious,  and  foolish  woman  whom  he  did  not  re- 
spect but  simply  put  up  with. 

Olga  Mihalovna  jumped  out  of  bed.  To  her 
mind  there  was  only  one  thing  left  for  her  to  do 
now;  to  dress  with  all  possible  haste  and  to  leave 
the  house  forever.  The  house  was  her  own,  but 
so  much  the  worse  for  Pyotr  Dmitritch.  Without 
pausing  to  consider  whether  this  was  necessary  or 
not,  she  went  quickly  to  the  study  to  inform  her 
husband  of  her  intention  ("Feminine  logic!" 
flashed  through  her  mind),  and  to  say  something 
wounding  and  sarcastic  at  parting.  .  .  . 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  was  lying  on  the  sofa  and  pre- 
tending to  read  a  newspaper.  There  was  a  candle 
burning  on  a  chair  near  him.  His  face  could  not 
be  seen  behind  the  newspaper. 

"  Be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  what  this  means?  I 
am  asking  you." 

"  Be  so  kind  .  .  ."  Pyotr  Dmitritch  mimicked 
her,  not  showing  his  face.  "It's  sickening,  Olga! 


The  Party  49 

Upon  my  honour,  I  am  exhausted  and  not  up  to 
it.  ...  Let  us  do  our  quarrelling  to-morrow." 

"No,  I  understand  you  perfectly!"  Olga  Miha- 
lovna  went  on.  "You  hate  me!  Yes,  yes!  You 
hate  me  because  I  am  richer  than  you!  You  will 
never  forgive  me  for  that,  and  will  always  be  lying 
to  me!  "  ("  Feminine  logic!  "  flashed  through  her 
mind  again.)  "  You  are  laughing  at  me  now.  .  .  . 
I  am  convinced,  in  fact,  that  you  only  married  me 
in  order  to  have  property  qualifications  and  those 
wretched  horses.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  am  miserable!" 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  dropped  the  newspaper  and  got 
up.  The  unexpected  insult  overwhelmed  him. 
With  a  childishly  helpless  smile  he  looked  desper- 
ately at  his  wife,  and  holding  out  his  hands  to  her 
as  though  to  ward  off  blows,  he  said  imploringly: 

"  Olya !  " 

And  expecting  her  to  say  something  else  awful, 
he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  his  huge  figure 
seemed  as  helplessly  childish  as  his  smile. 

"  Olya,  how  could  you  say  it?  "  he  whispered. 

Olga  Mihalovna  came  to  herself.  She  was  sud- 
denly aware  of  her  passionate  love  for  this  man, 
remembered  that  he  was  her  husband,  Pyotr  Dmit- 
ritch, without  whom  she  could  not  live  for  a  day, 
and  who  loved  her  passionately,  too.  She  burst 
into  loud  sobs  that  sounded  strange  and  unlike  her, 
and  ran  back  to  her  bedroom. 


50       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

She  fell  on  the  bed,  and  short  hysterical  sobs, 
choking  her  and  making  her  arms  and  legs  twitch, 
filled  the  bedroom.  Remembering  there  was  a  vis- 
itor sleeping  three  or  four  rooms  away,  she  buried 
her  head  under  the  pillow  to  stifle  her  sobs,  but  the 
pillow  rolled  on  to  the  floor,  and  she  almost  fell  on 
the  floor  herself  when  she  stooped  to  pick  it  up. 
She  pulled  the  quilt  up  to  her  face,  but  her  hands 
would  not  obey  her,  but  tore  convulsively  at  every- 
thing she  clutched. 

She  thought  that  everything  was  lost,  that  the 
falsehood  she  had  told  to  wound  her  husband  had 
shattered  her  life  into  fragments.  Her  husband 
would  not  forgive  her.  The  insult  she  had  hurled 
at  him  was  not  one  that  could  be  effaced  by  any 
caresses,  by  any  vows.  .  .  .  How  could  she  con- 
vince her  husband  that  she  did  not  believe  what  she 
had  said? 

"  It's  all  over,  it's  all  over!  "  she  cried,  not  no- 
ticing that  the  pillow  had  slipped  on  to  the  floor 
again.  "  For  God's  sake,  for  God's  sake!  " 

Probably  roused  by  her  cries,  the  guest  and  the 
servants  were  now  awake;  next  day  all  the  neigh- 
bourhood would  know  that  she  had  been  in  hysterics 
and  would  blame  Pyotr  Dmitritch.  She  made  an 
effort  to  restrain  herself,  but  her  sobs  grew  louder 
and  louder  every  minute. 

"  For  God's  sake,"  she  cried  in  a  voice  not  like 


The  Party  51 

her  own,  and  not  knowing  why  she  cried  it.  "  For 
God's  sake!" 

She  felt  as  though  the  bed  were  heaving  under 
her  and  her  feet  were  entangled  in  the  bed-clothes. 
Pyotr  Dmitritch,  in  his  dressing-gown,  with  a  can- 
dle in  his  hand,  came  into  the  bedroom. 

"Olya,  hush!  "he  said. 

She  raised  herself,  and  kneeling  up  in  bed,  screw- 
ing up  her  eyes  at  the  light,  articulated  through  her 
sobs: 

"Understand  .  .  .  understand!  .  .  ." 

She  wanted  to  tell  him  that  she  was  tired  to  death 
by  the  party,  by  his  falsity,  by  her  own  falsity,  that 
it  had  all  worked  together,  but  she  could  only  articu- 
late: 

"Understand  .  .  .  understand!" 

"  Come,  drink!  "  he  said,  handing  her  some  wa- 
ter. 

She  took  the  glass  obediently  and  began  drinking, 
but  the  water  splashed  over  and  was  spilt  on  her 
arms,  her  throat  and  knees. 

"  I  must  look  horribly  unseemly,"  she  thought. 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  put  her  back  in  bed  without  a 
word,  and  covered  her  with  the  quilt,  then  he  took 
the  candle  and  went  out. 

"  For  God's  sake!  "  Olga  Mihalovna  cried  again. 
"  Pyotr,  understand,  understand!  " 

Suddenly   something   gripped   her   in   the   lower 


52        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

part  of  her  body  and  back  with  such  violence  that 
her  wailing  was  cut  short,  and  she  bit  the  pillow 
from  the  pain.  But  the  pain  let  her  go  again  at 
once,  and  she  began  sobbing  again. 

The  maid  came  in,  and  arranging  the  quilt  over 
her,  asked  in  alarm: 

"  Mistress,  darling,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Go  out  of  the  room,"  said  Pyotr  Dmitritch 
sternly,  going  up  to  the  bed. 

"Understand  .  .  .  understand!  .  .  ."  Olga  Mi- 
halovna  began. 

"  Olya,  I  entreat  you,  calm  yourself,"  he  said. 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you.  I  would  not  have  gone 
out  of  the  room  if  I  had  known  it  would  have  hurt 
you  so  much;  I  simply  felt  depressed.  I  tell  you, 
on  my  honour  .  .  ." 

"Understand!  .  .  .  You  were  lying,  I  was  ly- 
ing " 

"  I  understand.  .  .  .  Come,  come,  that's  enough! 
I  understand,"  said  Pyotr  Dmitritch  tenderly,  sitting 
down  on  her  bed.  "  You  said  that  in  anger;  I  quite 
understand.  I  swear  to  God  I  love  you  beyond  any- 
thing on  earth,  and  when  I  married  you  I  never  once 
thought  of  your  being  rich.  I  loved  you  immensely, 
and  that's  all  ...  I  assure  you.  I  have  never  been 
in  want  of  money  or  felt  the  value  of  it,  and  so  I 
cannot  feel  the  difference  between  your  fortune  and 


The  Party  53 

mine.  It  always  seemed  to  me  we  were  equally  well 
off.  And  that  I  have  been  deceitful  in  little  things, 
that  ...  of  course,  is  true.  My  life  has  hitherto 
been  arranged  in  such  a  frivolous  way  that  it  has 
somehow  been  impossible  to  get  on  without  paltry 
lying.  It  weighs  on  me,  too,  now.  .  .  .  Let  us 
leave  off  talking  about  it,  for  goodness'  sake !  " 

Olga  Mihalovna  again  felt  in  acute  pain,  and 
clutched  her  husband  by  the  sleeve. 

"  I  am  in  pain,  in  pain,  in  pain  .  .  ."  she  said  rap- 
idly. "Oh,  what  pain!" 

"Damnation  take  those  visitors!"  muttered 
Pyotr  Dmitritch,  getting  up.  "  You  ought  not  to 
have  gone  to  the  island  to-day!  "  he  cried.  ;'  What 
an  idiot  I  was  not  to  prevent  you!  Oh,  my  God!  " 

He  scratched  his  head  in  vexation,  and,  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand,  walked  out  of  the  room. 

Then  he  came  into  the  room  several  times,  sat 
down  on  the  bed  beside  her,  and  talked  a  great  deal, 
sometimes  tenderly,  sometimes  angrily,  but  she 
hardly  heard  him.  Her  sobs  were  continually  inter- 
rupted by  fearful  attacks  of  pain,  and  each  time  the 
pain  was  more  acute  and  prolonged.  At  first  she 
held  her  breath  and  bit  the  pillow  during  the  pain, 
but  then  she  began  screaming  on  an  unseemly  pierc- 
ing note.  Once  seeing  her  husband  near  her,  she 
remembered  that  she  had  insulted  him,  and  without 


54       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

pausing  to  think  whether  it  were  really  Pyotr  Drnit- 
ritch  or  whether  she  were  in  delirium,  clutched  his 
hand  in  both  hers  and  began  kissing  it. 

"  You  were  lying,  I  was  lying  .  .  ."  she  began 
justifying  herself.  "  Understand,  understand.  .  .  . 
They  have  exhausted  me,  driven  me  out  of  all  pa- 
tience." 

"  Olya,  we  are  not  alone,"  said  Pyotr  Dmitritch. 

Olga  Mihalovna  raised  her  head  and  saw  Var- 
vara,  who  was  kneeling  by  the  chest  of  drawers 
and  pulling  out  the  bottom  drawer.  The  top  draw- 
ers were  already  open.  Then  Varvara  got  up,  red 
from  the  strained  position,  and  with  a  cold,  solemn 
face  began  trying  to  unlock  a  box. 

"  Marya,  I  can't  unlock  it!  "  she  said  in  a  whisper. 
"  You  unlock  it,  won't  you?  " 

Marya,  the  maid,  was  digging  a  candle  end  out 
of  the  candlestick  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  so  as  to 
put  in  a  new  candle;  she  went  up  to  Varvara  and 
helped  her  to  unlock  the  box. 

'  There  should  be  nothing  locked  .  .  ."  whis- 
pered Varvara.  "  Unlock  this  basket,  too,  my  good 
girl.  Master,"  she  said,  "  you  should  send  to  Fa- 
ther Mihail  to  unlock  the  holy  gates!  You  must!  " 

"  Do  what  you  like,"  said  Pyotr  Dmitritch,  breath- 
ing hard,  "  only,  for  God's  sake,  make  haste  and 
fetch  the  doctor  or  the  midwife !  Has  Vassily  gone  ? 
Send  some  one  else.  Send  your  husband !  " 


The  Party  55 

"  It's  the  birth,"  Olga  Mihalovna  thought. 
"  Varvara,"  she  moaned,  "  but  he  won't  be  born 
alive  I" 

"  It's  all  right,  it's  all  right,  mistress,"  whispered 
Varvara.  "Please  God,  he  will  be  alive!  he  will 
be  alive!" 

When  Olga  Mihalovna  came  to  herself  again 
after  a  pain  she  was  no  longer  sobbing  nor  tossing 
from  side  to  side,  but  moaning.  She  could  not  re- 
frain from  moaning  even  in  the  intervals  between 
the  pains.  The  candles  were  still  burning,  but  the 
morning  light  was  coming  through  the  blinds.  It 
was  probably  about  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
At  the  round  table  there  was  sitting  some  unknown 
woman  with  a  very  discreet  air,  wearing  a  white 
apron.  From  her  whole  appearance  it  was  evident 
she  had  been  sitting  there  a  long  time.  Olga  Mi- 
halovna guessed  that  she  was  the  midwife. 

"Will  it  soon  be  over?"  she  asked,  and  in  her 
voice  she  heard  a  peculiar  and  unfamiliar  note  which 
had  never  been  there  before.  "  I  must  be  dying 
in  childbirth,"  she  thought. 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  came  cautiously  into  the  bed- 
room, dressed  for  the  day,  and  stood  at  the  win- 
dow with  his  back  to  his  wife.  He  lifted  the  blind 
and  looked  out  of  window. 

"What  rain!  "he  said. 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Olga  Mihalovna,  in 


56        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

order  to  hear  the  unfamiliar  note  in  her  voice  again. 

"  A  quarter  to  six,"  answered  the  midwife. 

"  And  what  if  I  really  am  dying?  "  thought  Olga 
Mihalovna,  looking  at  her  husband's  head  and  the 
window-panes  on  which  the  rain  was  beating. 
"  How  will  he  live  without  me?  With  whom  will 
he  have  tea  and  dinner,  talk  in  the  evenings,  sleep?  " 

And  he  seemed  to  her  like  a  forlorn  child;  she 
felt  sorry  for  him  and  wanted  to  say  something 
nice,  caressing  and  consolatory.  She  remembered 
how  in  the  spring  he  had  meant  to  buy  himself  some 
harriers,  and  she,  thinking  it  a  cruel  and  dangerous 
sport,  had  prevented  him  from  doing  it. 

"  Pyotr,  buy  yourself  harriers,"  she  moaned. 

He  dropped  the  blind  and  went  up  to  the  bed,  and 
would  have  said  something;  but  at  that  moment  the 
pain  came  back,  and  Olga  Mihalovna  uttered  an  un- 
seemly, piercing  scream. 

The  pain  and  the  constant  screaming  and  moan- 
ing stupefied  her.  She  heard,  saw,  and  sometimes 
spoke,  but  hardly  understood  anything,  and  was 
only  conscious  that  she  was  in  pain  or  was  just  go- 
ing to  be  in  pain.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  name- 
day  party  had  been  long,  long  ago  —  not  yesterday, 
but  a  year  ago  perhaps;  and  that  her  new  life  of 
agony  had  lasted  longer  than  her  childhood,  her 
school-days,  her  time  at  the  University,  and  her 
marriage,  and  would  go  on  for  a  long,  long  time, 


The  Party  57 

endlessly.  She  saw  them  bring  tea  to  the  midwife, 
and  summon  her  at  midday  to  lunch  and  afterwards 
to  dinner;  she  saw  Pyotr  Dmitritch  grow  used  to 
coming  in,  standing  for  long  intervals  by  the  win- 
dow, and  going  out  again;  saw  strange  men,  the 
maid,  Varvara,  come  in  as  though  they  were  at 
home.  .  .  .  Varvara  said  nothing  but,  "  He  will, 
he  will,"  and  was  angry  when  any  one  closed  the 
drawers  and  the  chest.  Olga  Mihalovna  saw  the 
light  change  in  the  room  and  in  the  windows :  at  one 
time  it  was  twilight,  then  thick  like  fog,  then  bright 
daylight  as  it  had  been  at  dinner-time  the  day  before, 
then  again  twilight  .  .  .  and  each  of  these  changes 
lasted  as  long  as  her  childhood,  her  school-days,  her 
life  at  the  University.  .  .  . 

In  the  evening  two  doctors  —  one  bony,  bald,  with 
a  big  red  beard;  the  other  with  a  swarthy  Jewish 
face  and  cheap  spectacles  —  performed  some  sort 
of  operation  on  Olga  Mihalovna.  To  these  un- 
known men  touching  her  body  she  felt  utterly  in- 
different. By  now  she  had  no  feeling  of  shame,  no 
will,  and  any  one  might  do  what  he  would  with  her. 
If  any  one  had  rushed  at  her  with  a  knife,  or  had 
insulted  Pyotr  Dmitritch,  or  had  robbed  her  of  her 
right  to  the  little  creature,  she  would  not  have  said 
a  word. 

They  gave  her  chloroform  during  the  operation. 
When  she  came  to  again,  the  pain  was  still  there 


58        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

and  insufferable.  It  was  night.  And  Olga  Miha- 
lovna  remembered  that  there  had  been  just  such  a 
night  with  the  stillness,  the  lamp,  with  the  midwife 
sitting  motionless  by  the  bed,  with  the  drawers  of 
the  chest  pulled  out,  with  Pyotr  Dmitritch  standing 
by  the  window,  but  some  time  very,  very  long 
ago.  .  .  . 


"  I  am  not  dead  .  .  ."  thought  Olga  Mihalovna 
when  she  began  to  understand  her  surroundings 
again,  and  when  the  pain  was  over. 

A  bright  summer  day  looked  in  at  the  widely 
open  windows;  in  the  garden  below  the  windows, 
the  sparrows  and  the  magpies  never  ceased  chat- 
tering for  one  instant. 

The  drawers  were  shut  now,  her  husband's  bed 
had  been  made.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  mid- 
wife or  of  the  maid,  or  of  Varvara  in  the  room, 
only  Pyotr  Dmitritch  was  standing,  as  before,  mo- 
tionless by  the  window  looking  into  the  garden. 
There  was  no  sound  of  a  child's  crying,  no  one  was 
congratulating  her  or  rejoicing,  it  was  evident  that 
the  little  creature  had  not  been  born  alive. 

"Pyotr!" 

Olga  Mihalovna  called  to  her  husband. 

Pyotr   Dmitritch   looked   round.     It   seemed   as 


The  Party  59 

though  a  long  time  must  have  passed  since  the 
last  guest  had  departed  and  Olga  Mihalovna  had 
insulted  her  husband,  for  Pyotr  Dmitritch  was  per- 
ceptibly thinner  and  hollow-eyed. 

il  What  is  it?  "  he  asked,  coming  up  to  the  bed. 

He  looked  away,  moved  his  lips  and  smiled  with 
childlike  helplessness. 

"  Is  it  all  over?  "  asked  Olga  Mihalovna. 

Pyotr  Dmitritch  tried  to  make  some  answer,  but 
his  lips  quivered  and  his  mouth  worked  like  a  tooth- 
less old  man's,  like  Uncle  Nikolay  Nikolaitch's. 

"  Olya,"  he  said,  wringing  his  hands;  big  tears 
suddenly  dropping  from  his  eyes.  "  Olya,  I  don't 
care  about  your  property  qualification,  nor  the  Cir- 
cuit Courts  .  .  ."  (he  gave  a  sob)  "nor  particular 
views,  nor  those  visitors,  nor  your  fortune.  ...  I 
don't  care  about  anything!  Why  didn't  we  take 
care  of  our  child?  Oh,  it's  no  good  talking!  " 

With  a  despairing  gesture  he  went  out  of  the  bed- 
room. 

But  nothing  mattered  to  Olga  Mihalovna  now, 
there  was  a  mistiness  in  her  brain  from  the  chloro- 
form, an  emptiness  in  her  soul.  .  .  .  The  dull  in- 
difference to  life  which  had  overcome  her  when  the 
two  doctors  were  performing  the  operation  still  had 
possession  of  her. 


TERROR 


TERROR 
MY  FRIEND'S  STORY 

DMITRI  PETROVITCH  SILIN  had  taken  his  degree  and 
entered  the  government  service  in  Petersburg,  but 
at  thirty  he  gave  up  his  post  and  went  in  for  agricul- 
ture. His  farming  was  fairly  successful,  and  yet 
it  always  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  not  in  his  proper 
place,  and  that  he  would  do  well  to  go  back  to  Peters- 
burg. When  sunburnt,  grey  with  dust,  exhausted 
with  toil,  he  met  me  near  the  gates  or  at  the  en- 
trance, and  then  at  supper  struggled  with  sleepiness 
and  his  wife  took  him  oft  to  bed  as  though  he  were 
a  baby;  or  when,  overcoming  his  sleepiness,  he  be- 
gan in  his  soft,  cordial,  almost  imploring  voice,  to 
talk  about  his  really  excellent  ideas,  I  saw  him  not 
as  a  farmer  nor  an  agriculturist,  but  only  as  a  wor- 
ried and  exhausted  man,  and  it  was  clear  to  me  that 
he  did  not  really  care  for  farming,  but  that  all  he 
wanted  was  for  the  day  to  be  over  and  "  Thank  God 
for  it." 

I  liked  to  be  with  him,  and  I  used  to  stay  on 
his  farm  for  two  or  three  days  at  a  time.  I  liked 
his  house,  and  his  park,  and  his  big  fruit  garden, 

63 


64        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

and  the  river  —  and  his  philosophy,  which  was  clear, 
though  rather  spiritless  and  rhetorical.  I  suppose 
I  was  fond  of  him  on  his  own  account,  though  I 
can't  say  that  for  certain,  as  I  have  not  up  to  now 
succeeded  in  analysing  my  feelings  at  that  time.  He 
was  an  intelligent,  kind-hearted,  genuine  man,  and 
not  a  bore,  but  I  remember"  that  when  he  confided 
to  me  his  most  treasured  secrets  and  spoke  of  our 
relation  to  each  other  as  friendship,  it  disturbed  me 
unpleasantly,  and  I  was  conscious  of  awkwardness. 
In  his  affection  for  me  there  was  something  inappro- 
priate, tiresome,  and  I  should  have  greatly  preferred 
commonplace  friendly  relations. 

The  fact  is  that  I  was  extremely  attracted  by  his 
wife,  Marya  Sergeyevna.  I  was  not  in  love  with 
her,  but  I  was  attracted  by  her  face,  her  eyes,  her 
voice,  her  walk.  I  missed  her  when  I  did  not  see 
her  for  a  long  time,  and  my  imagination  pictured  no 
one  at  that  time  so  eagerly  as  that  young,  beautiful, 
elegant  woman.  I  had  no  definite  designs  in  regard 
to  her,  and  did  not  dream  of  anything  of  the  sort, 
yet  for  some  reason,  whenever  we  were  left  alone, 
I  remembered  that  her  husband  looked  upon  me  as 
his  friend,  and  I  felt  awkward.  When  she  played 
my  favourite  pieces  on  the  piano  or  told  me  some- 
thing interesting,  I  listened  with  pleasure,  and  yet 
at  the  same  time  for  some  reason  the  reflection  that 
she  loved  her  husband,  that  he  was  my  friend,  and 


Terror  65 

that  she  herself  looked  upon  me  as  his  friend,  ob- 
truded themselves  upon  me,  my  spirits  flagged,  and 
I  became  listless,  awkward,  and  dull.  She  noticed 
this  change  and  would  usually  say: 

"  You  are  dull  without  your  friend.  We  must 
send  out  to  the  fields  for  him." 

And  when  Dmitri  Petrovitch  came  in,  she  would 
say: 

"  Well,  here  is  your  friend  now.     Rejoice." 

So  passed  a  year  and  a  half. 

It  somehow  happened  one  July  Sunday  that 
Dmitri  Petrovitch  and  I,  having  nothing  to  do, 
drove  to  the  big  village  of  Klushino  to  buy  things 
for  supper.  While  we  were  going  from  one  shop 
to  another  the  sun  set  and  the  evening  came  on  — 
the  evening  which  I  shall  probably  never  forget 
in  my  life.  After  buying  cheese  that  smelt  like 
soap,  and  petrified  sausages  that  smelt  of  tar,  we 
went  to  the  tavern  to  ask  whether  they  had  any  beer. 
Our  coachman  went  off  to  the  blacksmith  to  get  our 
horses  shod,  and  we  told  him  we  would  wait  for  him 
near  the  church.  We  walked,  talked,  laughed  over 
our  purchases,  while  a  man  who  was  known  in  the 
district  by  a  very  strange  nickname,  "  Forty  Mar- 
tyrs," followed  us  all  the  while  in  silence  with  a 
mysterious  air  like  a  detective.  This  Forty  Mar- 
tyrs was  no  other  than  Gavril  Syeverov,  or  more 
simply  Gavryushka,  who  had  been  for  a  short  time 


66        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

in  my  service  as  a  footman  and  had  been  dismissed 
by  me  for  drunkenness.  He  had  been  in  Dmitri 
Petrovitch's  service,  too,  and  by  him  had  been  dis- 
missed for  the  same  vice.  He  was  an  inveterate 
drunkard,  and  indeed  his  whole  life  was  as  drunk  and 
disorderly  as  himself.  His  father  had  been  a  priest 
and  his  mother  of  noble  rank,  so  by  birth  he  be- 
longed to  the  privileged  class;  but  however  care- 
fully I  scrutinized  his  exhausted,  respectful,  and  al- 
ways perspiring  face,  his  red  beard  now  turning  grey, 
his  pitifully  torn  reefer  jacket  and  his  red  shirt, 
I  could  not  discover  in  him  the  faintest  trace  of 
anything  we  associate  with  privilege.  He  spoke  of 
himself  as  a  man  of  education,  and  used  to  say  that 
he  had  been  in  a  clerical  school,  but  had  not  finished 
his  studies  there,  as  he  had  been  expelled  for  smok- 
ing; then  he  had  sung  in  the  bishop's  choir  and  lived 
for  two  years  in  a  monastery,  from  which  he  was 
also  expelled,  but  this  time  not  for  smoking  but  for 
"  his  weakness."  He  had  walked  all  over  two  prov- 
inces, had  presented  petitions  to  the  Consistory,  and 
to  various  government  offices,  and  had  been  four 
times  on  his  trial.  At  last,  being  stranded  in  our 
district,  he  had  served  as  a  footman,  as  a  forester, 
as  a  kennelman,  as  a  sexton,  had  married  a  cook  who 
was  a  widow  and  rather  a  loose  character,  and  had 
so  hopelessly  sunk  into  a  menial  position,  and  had 
grown  so  used  to  filth  and  dirt,  that  he  even  spoke 


Terror  67 

of  his  privileged  origin  with  a  certain  scepticism, 
as  of  some  myth.  At  the  time  I  am  describing,  he 
was  hanging  about  without  a  job,  calling  himself 
a  carrier  and  a  huntsman,  and  his  wife  had  dis- 
appeared and  made  no  sign. 

From  the  tavern  we  went  to  the  church  and  sat 
in  the  porch,  waiting  for  the  coachman.  Forty 
Martyrs  stood  a  little  way  off  and  put  his  hand 
before  his  mouth  in  order  to  cough  in  it  respect- 
fully if  need  be.  By  now  it  was  dark;  there  was 
a  strong  smell  of  evening  dampness,  and  the  moon 
was  on  the  point  of  rising.  There  were  only  two 
clouds  in  the  clear  starry  sky  exactly  over  our  heads: 
one  big  one  and  one  smaller;  alone  in  the  sky  they 
were  racing  after  one  another  like  mother  and  child, 
in  the  direction  where  the  sunset  was  glowing. 

"  What  a  glorious  day !  "  said  Dmitri  Petrovitch. 

"  In  the  extreme  .  .  ."  Forty  Martyrs  assented, 
and  he  coughed  respectfully  into  his  hand.  <(  How 
was  it,  Dmitri  Petrovitch,  you  thought  to  visit  these 
parts?  "  he  asked  in  an  ingratiating  voice,  evidently 
anxious  to  get  up  a  conversation. 

Dmitri  Petrovitch  made  no  answer.  Forty  Mar- 
tyrs heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  said  softly,  not  looking 
at  us : 

"  I  suffer  solely  through  a  cause  to  which  I  must 
answer  to  Almighty  God.  No  doubt  about  it,  I  am 
a  hopeless  and  incompetent  man;  but  believe  me,  on 


68       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

my  conscience,  I  am  without  a  crust  of  bread  and 
worse  off  than  a  dog.  .  .  .  Forgive  me,  Dmitri  Pet- 
rovitch." 

Silin  was  not  listening,  but  sat  musing  with  his 
head  propped  on  his  fists.  The  church  stood  at 
the  end  of  the  street  on  the  high  river-bank,  and 
through  the  trellis  gate  of  the  enclosure  we  could 
see  the  river,  the  water-meadows  on  the  near  side 
of  it,  and  the  crimson  glare  of  a  camp  fire  about 
which  black  figures  of  men  and  horses  were  moving. 
And  beyond  the  fire,  further  away,  there  were  other 
lights,  where  there  was  a  little  village.  They  were 
singing  there.  On  the  river,  and  here  and  there  on 
the  meadows,  a  mist  was  rising.  High  narrow  coils 
of  mist,  thick  and  white  as  milk,  were  trailing  over 
the  river,  hiding  the  reflection  of  the  stars  and  hover- 
ing over  the  willows.  Every  minute  they  changed 
their  form,  and  it  seemed  as  though  some  were  em- 
bracing, others  were  bowing,  others  lifting  up  their 
arms  to  heaven  with  wide  sleeves  like  priests,  as 
though  they  were  praying.  .  .  .  Probably  they  re- 
minded Dmitri  Petrovitch  of  ghosts  and  of  the  dead, 
for  he  turned  facing  me  and  asked  with  a  mournful 
smile: 

"  Tell  me,  my  dear  fellow,  why  is  it  that  when  we 
want  to  tell  some  terrible,  mysterious,  and  fantastic 
story,  we  draw  our  material,  not  from  life,  but  in- 


Terror  69 

variably  from  the  world  of  ghosts  and  of  the  shad- 
ows beyond  the  grave." 

"  We  are  frightened  of  what  we  don't  under- 
stand." 

"  And  do  you  understand  life?  Tell  me:  do  you 
understand  life  better  than  the  world  beyond  the 
grave?  " 

Dmitri  Petrovitch  was  sitting  quite  close  to  me, 
so  that  I  felt  his  breath  upon  my  cheek.  In  the 
evening  twilight  his  pale,  lean  face  seemed  paler 
than  ever  and  his  lark  beard  was  black  as  soot. 
His  eyes  were  sad,  truthful,  and  a  little  frightened, 
as  though  he  were  about  to  tell  me  something  hor- 
rible. He  looked  into  my  eyes  and  went  on  in  his 
habitual  imploring  voice : 

"  Our  life  and  the  life  beyond  the  grave  are 
equally  incomprehensible  and  horrible.  If  any  one 
is  afraid  of  ghosts  he  ought  to  be  afraid,  too,  of 
me,  and  of  those  lights  and  of  the  sky,  seeing  that, 
if  you  come  to  reflect,  all  that  is  no  less  fantastic 
and  beyond  our  grasp  than  apparitions  from  the 
other  world.  Prince  Hamlet  did  not  kill  himself 
because  he  was  afraid  of  the  visions  that  might 
haunt  his  dreams  after  death.  I  like  that  famous 
soliloquy  of  his,  but,  to  be  candid,  it  never  touched 
my  soul.  I  will  confess  to  you  as  a  friend  that  in 
moments  of  depression  I  have  sometimes  pictured 


70        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

to  myself  the  hour  of  my  death.  My  fancy  invented 
thousands  of  the  gloomiest  visions,  and  I  have  suc- 
ceeded in  working  myself  up  to  an  agonizing  exalta- 
tion, to  a  state  of  nightmare,  and  I  assure  you  that 
that  did  not  seem  to  me  more  terrible  than  reality. 
\Vhat  I  mean  is,  apparitions  are  terrible,  but  life 
is  terrible,  too.  I  don't  understand  life  and  I  am 
afraid  of  it,  my  dear  boy;  I  don't  know.  Perhaps 
I  am  a  morbid  person,  unhinged.  It  seems  to  a 
sound,  healthy  man  that  he  understands  everything 
he  sees  and  hears,  but  that  '  seeming  '  is  lost  to  me, 
and  from  day  to  day  I  am  poisoning  myself  with  ter- 
ror. There  is  a  disease,  the  fear  of  open  spaces, 
but  my  disease  is  the  fear  of  life.  When  I  lie  on 
the  grass  and  watch  a  little  beetle  which  was  born 
yesterday  and  understands  nothing,  it  seems  to  me 
that  its  life  consists  of  nothing  else  but  fear,  and  in 
it  I  see  myself." 

"What  is  it  exactly  you  are  frightened  of?"  I 
asked. 

"  I  am  afraid  of  everything.  I  am  not  by  nature 
a  profound  thinker,  and  I  take  little  interest  in  such 
questions  as  the  life  beyond  the  grave,  the  destiny 
of  humanity,  and,  in  fact,  I  am  rarely  carried  away 
to  the  heights.  What  chiefly  frightens  me  is  the 
common  routine  of  life  from  which  none  of  us  can 
escape.  I  am  incapable  of  distinguishing  what  is 


Terror  7 1 

true  and  what  is  false  in  my  actions,  and  they  worry 
me.  I  recognize  that  education  and  the  conditions 
of  life  have  imprisoned  me  in  a  narrow  circle  of 
falsity,  that  my  whole  life  is  nothing  else  than  a 
daily  effort  to  deceive  myself  and  other  people,  and 
to  avoid  noticing  it;  and  I  am  frightened  at  the 
thought  that  to  the  day  of  my  death  I  shall  not  es- 
cape from  this  falsity.  To-day  I  do  something  and 
to-morrow  I  do  not  understand  why  I  did  it.  I  en- 
tered the  service  in  Petersburg  and  took  fright;  I 
came  here  to  work  on  the  land,  and  here,  too,  I  am 
frightened.  ...  I  see  that  we  know  very  little  and 
so  make  mistakes  every  day.  We  are  unjust,  we 
slander  one  another  and  spoil  each  other's  lives, 
we  waste  all  our  powers  on  trash  which  we  do  not 
need  and  which  hinders  us  from  living;  and  that 
frightens  me,  because  I  don't  understand  why  and 
for  whom  it  is  necessary.  I  don't  understand  men, 
my  dear  fellow,  and  I  am  afraid  of  them.  It  fright- 
ens me  to  look  at  the  peasants,  and  I  don't  know 
for  what  higher  objects  they  are  suffering  and  what 
they  are  living  for.  If  life  is  an  enjoyment,  then 
they  are  unnecessary,  superfluous  people;  if  the  ob- 
ject and  meaning  of  life  is  to  be  found  in  poverty 
and  unending,  hopeless  ignorance,  I  can't  understand 
for  whom  and  what  this  torture  is  necessary.  I  un- 
destand  no  one  and  nothing.  Kindly  try  to  under- 


72       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

stand  this  specimen,  for  instance,"  said  Dmitri  Pet- 
rovitch,  pointing  to  Forty  Martyrs.  "  Think  of 
him!" 

Noticing  that  we  were  looking  at  him,  Forty  Mar- 
tyrs coughed  deferentially  into  his  fist  and  said: 

"  I  was  always  a  faithful  servant  with  good  mas- 
ters, but  the  great  trouble  has  been  spirituous  liquor. 
If  a  poor  fellow  like  me  were  shown  consideration 
and  given  a  place,  I  would  kiss  the  ikon.  My 
word's  my  bond." 

The  sexton  walked  by,  looked  at  us  in  amazement, 
and  began  pulling  the  rope.  The  bell,  abruptly 
breaking  upon  the  stillness  of  the  evening,  struck  ten 
with  a  slow  and  prolonged  note. 

"  It's  ten  o'clock,  though,"  said  Dmitri  Petro- 
vitch.  "  It's  time  we  were  going.  Yes,  my  dear 
fellow,"  he  sighed,  "  if  only  you  knew  how  afraid 
I  am  of  my  ordinary  everyday  thoughts,  in  which 
one  would  have  thought  there  should  be  nothing 
dreadful.  To  prevent  myself  thinking  I  distract  my 
mind  with  work  and  try  to  tire  myself  out  that  I  may 
sleep  sound  at  night.  Children,  a  wife  —  all  that 
seems  ordinary  with  other  people;  but  how  that 
weighs  upon  me,  my  dear  fellow !  " 

He  rubbed  his  face  with  his  hands,  cleared  his 
throat,  and  laughed. 

"  If  I  could  only  tell  you  how  I  have  played  the 
fool  in  my  life !  "  he  said.  "  They  all  tell  me  that  I 


Terror  73 

have  a  sweet  wife,  charming  children,  and  that  I  am 
a  good  husband  and  father.  They  think  I  am  very 
happy  and  envy  me.  But  since  it  has  come  to  that, 
I  will  tell  you  in  secret:  my  happy  family  life  is  only 
a  grievous  misunderstanding,  and  I  am  afraid  of  it." 

His  pale  face  was  distorted  by  a  wry  smile.  He 
put  his  arm  round  my  waist  and  went  on  in  an  under- 
tone: 

"You  are  my  true  friend;  I  believe  in  you  and 
have  a  deep  respect  for  you.  Heaven  gave  us 
friendship  that  we  may  open  our  hearts  and  escape 
from  the  secrets  that  weigh  upon  us.  Let  me  take 
advantage  of  your  friendly  feeling  for  me  and  tell 
you  the  whole  truth.  My  home  life,  which  seems  to 
you  so  enchanting,  is  my  chief  misery  and  my  chief 
terror.  I  got  married  in  a  strange  and  stupid  way. 
I  must  tell  you  that  I  was  madly  in  love  with  Masha 
before  I  married  her,  and  was  courting  her  for  two 
years.  I  asked  her  to  marry  me  five  times,  and  she 
refused  me  because  she  did  not  care  for  me  in  the 
least.  The  sixth,  when  burning  with  passion  I 
crawled  on  my  knees  before  her  and  implored  her  to 
take  a  beggar  and  marry  me,  she  consented.  .  .  . 
What  she  said  to  me  was :  '  I  don't  love  you,  but  I 
will  be  true  to  you.  .  .  .'  I  accepted  that  condition 
with  rapture.  At  the  time  I  understood  what  that 
meant,  but  I  swear  to  God  I  don't  understand  it  now. 
'  I  don't  love  you,  but  I  will  be  true  to  you.'  What 


74        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

does  that  mean?  It's  a  fog,  a  darkness.  I  love  her 
now  as  intensely  as  I  did  the  day  we  were  married, 
while  she,  I  believe,  is  as  indifferent  as  ever,  and  I 
believe  she  is  glad  when  I  go  away  from  home.  I 
don't  know  for  certain  whether  she  cares  for  me  or 
not  —  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know;  but,  as  you  see, 
we  live  under  the  same  roof,  call  each  other  '  thou,' 
sleep  together,  have  children,  our  property  is  in  com- 
mon. .  .  .  What  does  it  mean,  what  does  it  mean? 
What  is  the  object  of  it?  And  do  you  understand  it 
at  all,  my  dear  fellow?  It's  cruel  torture  !  Because 
I  don't  understand  our  relations,  I  hate,  sometimes 
her,  sometimes  myself,  sometimes  both  at  once. 
Everything  is  in  a  tangle  in  my  brain;  I  torment  my- 
self and  grow  stupid.  And  as  though  to  spite  me, 
she  grows  more  beautiful  every  day,  she  is  getting 
more  wonderful.  ...  I  fancy  her  hair  is  marvel- 
lous, and  her  smile  is  like  no  other  woman's.  I 
love  her,  and  I  know  that  my  love  is  hopeless. 
Hopeless  love  for  a  woman  by  whom  one  has  two 
children!  Is  that  intelligible?  And  isn't  it  ter- 
rible? Isn't  it  more  terrible  than  ghosts?  " 

He  was  in  the  mood  to  have  talked  on  a  good  deal 
longer,  but  luckily  we  heard  the  coachman's  voice. 
Our  horses  had  arrived.  We  got  into  the  carriage, 
and  Forty  Martyrs,  taking  off  his  cap,  helped  us 
both  into  the  carriage  with  an  expression  that  sug- 
gested that  he  had  long  been  waiting  for  an  oppor- 


Terror  79 

tunity  to  come  in  contact  with  our  precious  persons. 

"  Dmitri  Petrovitch,  let  me  come  to  you,"  he  said, 
blinking  furiously  and  tilting  his  head  on  one  side. 
"  Show  divine  mercy !  I  am  dying  of  hunger !  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Silin.  "  Come,  you  shall  stay 
three  days,  and  then  we  shall  see." 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  Forty  Martyrs,  overjoyed. 
"  I'll  come  today,  sir." 

It  was  a  five  miles'  drive  home.  Dmitri  Petio- 
vitch,  glad  that  he  had  at  last  opened  his  heart  to 
his  friend,  kept  his  arm  round  my  waist  all  the  way; 
and  speaking  now,  not  with  bitterness  and  not  with 
apprehension,  but  quite  cheerfully,  told  me  that  if 
everything  had  been  satisfactory  in  his  home  life,  he 
should  have  returned  to  Petersburg  and  taken  up 
scientific  work  there.  The  movement  which  had 
driven  so  many  gifted  young  men  into  the  country 
was,  he  said,  a  deplorable  movement.  We  had 
plenty  of  rye  and  wheat  in  Russia,  but  absolutely  no 
cultured  people.  The  strong  and  gifted  among  the 
young  ought  to  take  up  science,  art,  and  politics;  to 
act  otherwise  meant  being  wasteful.  He  general- 
ized with  pleasure  and  expressed  regret  that  he 
would  be  parting  from  me  early  next  morning,  as  he 
had  to  go  to  a  sale  of  timber. 

And  I  felt  awkward  and  depressed,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  was  deceiving  the  man.  And  at  the 
same  time  it  was  pleasant  to  me.  I  gazed  at  the 


76        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

immense  crimson  moon  which  was  rising,  and  pic- 
tured the  tall,  graceful,  fair  woman,  with  her  pale 
face,  always  well-dressed  and  fragrant  with  some 
special  scent,  rather  like  musk,  and  for  some  reason 
it  pleased  me  to  think  she  did  not  love  her  husband. 

On  reaching  home,  we  sat  down  to  supper. 
Marya  Sergeyevna,  laughing,  regaled  us  with  our 
purchases,  and  I  thought  that  she  certainly  had  won- 
derful hair  and  that  her  smile  was  unlike  any  other 
woman's.  I  watched  her,  and  I  wanted  to  detect  in 
every  look  and  movement  that  she  did  not  love  her 
husband,  and  I  fancied  that  I  did  see  it. 

Dmitri  Petrovitch  was  soon  struggling  with  sleep. 
After  supper  he  sat  with  us  for  ten  minutes  and  said: 

"  Do  as  you  please,  my  friends,  but  I  have  to  be 
up  at  three  o'clock  tomorrow  morning.  Excuse  my 
leaving  you." 

He  kissed  his  wife  tenderly,  pressed  my  hand 
with  warmth  and  gratitude,  and  made  me  promise 
that  I  would  certainly  come  the  following  week. 
That  he  might  not  oversleep  next  morning,  he  went 
to  spend  the  night  in  the  lodge. 

Marya  Sergeyevna  always  sat  up  late,  in  the 
Petersburg  fashion,  and  for  some  reason  on  this  occa- 
sion I  was  glad  of  it. 

"  And  now,"  I  began  when  we  were  left  alone, 
"  and  now  you'll  be  kind  and  play  me  something." 

I  felt  no  desire  for  music,  but  I  did  not  know  how 


Terror  77 

to  begin  the  conversation.  She  sat  down  to  the 
piano  and  played,  I  don't  remember  what.  I  sat 
down  beside  her  and  looked  at  her  plump  white 
hands  and  tried  to  read  something  on  her  cold,  in- 
different face.  Then  she  smiled  at  something  and 
looked  at  me. 

"  You  are  dull  without  your  friend,"  she  said. 

I  laughed. 

"  It  would  be  enough  for  friendship  to  be  here 
once  a  month,  but  I  turn  up  oftener  than  once  a 
week." 

Saying  this,  I  got  up  and  walked  from  one  end  of 
the  room  to  the  other.  She  too  got  up  and  walked 
away  to  the  fireplace. 

i4  What  do  you  mean  to  say  by  that?  "  she  said, 
raising  her  large,  clear  eyes  and  looking  at  me. 

I  made  no  answer. 

"  What  you  say  is  not  true,"  she  went  on,  after 
a  moment's  thought.  "  You  only  come  here  on 
account  of  Dmitri  Petrovitch.  Well,  I  am  very 
glad.  One  does  not  often  see  such  friendships  now- 
adays." 

"  Aha !  "  I  thought,  and,  not  knowing  what  to  say, 
I  asked:  "Would  you  care  for  a  turn  in  the 
garden?  " 

"  No." 

I  went  out  upon  the  verandah.  Nervous  shud- 
ders were  running  over  my  head  and  I  felt  chilly 


78        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

with  excitement.  I  was  convinced  now  that  our  con- 
versation would  be  utterly  trivial,  and  that  there  was 
nothing  particular  we  should  be  able  to  say  to  one 
another,  but  that,  that  night,  what  I  did  not  dare  to 
dream  of  was  bound  to  happen  —  that  it  was  bound 
to  be  that  night  or  never. 

"  What  lovely  weather !  "  I  said  aloud. 

"  It  makes  absolutely  no  difference  to  me,"  she 
answered. 

I  went  into  the  drawing-room.  Marya  Serge- 
yevna  was  standing,  as  before,  near  the  fireplace, 
with  her  hands  behind  her  back,  looking  away  and 
thinking  of  something. 

''Why  does  it  make  no  difference  to  you?"  I 
asked. 

"  Because  I  am  bored.  You  are  only  bored  with- 
out your  friend,  but  I  am  always  bored.  However 
.  .  .  that  is  of  no  interest  to  you." 

I  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  struck  a  few  chords, 
waiting  to  hear  what  she  would  say. 

"  Please  don't  stand  on  ceremony,"  she  said,  look- 
ing angrily  at  me,  and  she  seemed  as  though  on  the 
point  of  crying  with  vexation.  "  If  you  are  sleepy, 
go  to  bed.  Because  you  are  Dmitri  Petrovitch's 
friend,  you  are  not  in  duty  bound  to  be  bored  with 
his  wife's  company.  I  don't  W7ant  a  sacrifice. 
Please  go." 

I  did  not,  of  course,  go  to  bed.     She  went  out  on 


Terror  79 

the  verandah  while  I  remained  in  the  drawing-room 
and  spent  five  minutes  turning  over  the  music. 
Then  I  went  out,  too.  We  stood  close  together  in 
the  shadow  of  the  curtains,  and  below  us  were  the 
steps  bathed  in  moonlight.  The  black  shadows  of 
the  trees  stretched  across  the  flower  beds  and  the 
yellow  sand  of  the  paths. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  away  tomorrow,  too,"  I  said. 

"  Of  course,  if  my  husband's  not  at  home  you  can't 
stay  here,"  she  said  sarcastically.  "  I  can  imagine 
how  miserable  you  would  be  if  you  were  in  love  with 
me!  Wait  a  bit:  one  day  I  shall  throw  myself  on 
your  neck.  ...  I  shall  see  with  what  horror  you 
will  run  away  from  me.  That  would  be  interesting." 

Her  words  and  her  pale  face  were  angry,  but  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tender  passionate  love.  I  already 
looked  upon  this  lovely  creature  as  my  property,  and 
then  for  the  first  time  I  noticed  that  she  had  golden 
eyebrows,  exquisite  eyebrows.  I  had  never  seen  such 
eyebrows  before.  The  thought  that  I  might  at  once 
press  her  to  my  heart,  caress  her,  touch  her  wonder- 
ful hair,  seemed  to  me  such  a  miracle  that  I  laughed 
and  shut  my  eyes. 

"  It's  bed-time  now.  ...  A  peaceful  night,"  she 
said. 

"  I  don't  want  a  peaceful  night,"  I  said,  laughing, 
following  her  into  the  drawing-room.  "  I  shall 
curse  this  night  if  it  is  a  peaceful  one." 


8o       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

Pressing  her  hand,  and  escorting  her  to  the  door, 
I  saw  by  her  face  that  she  understood  me,  and  was 
glad  that  I  understood  her,  too. 

I  went  to  my  room.  Near  the  books  on  the  table 
lay  Dmitri  Petrovitch's  cap,  and  that  reminded  me 
of  his  affection  for  me.  I  took  my  stick  and  went 
out  into  the  garden.  The  mist  had  risen  here,  too, 
and  the  same  tall,  narrow,  ghostly  shapes  which  I 
had  seen  earlier  on  the  river  were  trailing  round  the 
trees  and  bushes  and  wrapping  about  them.  What 
a  pity  I  could  not  talk  to  them ! 

In  the  extraordinarily  transparent  air,  each  leaf, 
each  drop  of  dew  stood  out  distinctly;  it  was  all 
smiling  at  me  in  the  stillness  half  asleep,  and  as  I 
passed  the  green  seats  I  recalled  the  words  in  some 
play  of  Shakespeare's:  "How  sweetly  falls  the 
moonlight  on  yon  seat!  " 

There  was  a  mound  in  the  garden ;  I  went  up  it  and 
sat  down.  I  was  tormented  by  a  delicious  feeling. 
I  knew  for  certain  that  in  a  moment  I  should  hold  in 
my  arms,  should  press  to  my  heart  her  magnificent 
body,  should  kiss  her  golden  eyebrows;  and  I  wanted 
to  disbelieve  it,  to  tantalize  myself,  and  was  sorry 
that  she  had  cost  me  so  little  trouble  and  had  yielded 
so  soon. 

But  suddenly  I  heard  heavy  footsteps.  A  man  of 
medium  height  appeared  in  the  avenue,  and  I  recog- 
nized him  at  once  as  Forty  Martyrs.  He  sat  down 


Terror  81 

on  the  bench  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  then  crossed 
himself  three  times  and  lay  down.  A  minute  later 
he  got  up  and  lay  on  the  other  side.  The  gnats  and 
the  dampness  of  the  night  prevented  his  sleeping. 

"  Oh,  life!  "  he  said.     "  Wretched,  bitter  life!  " 

Looking  at  his  bent,  wasted  body  and  hearing  his 
heavy,  noisy  sighs,  I  thought  of  an  unhappy,  bitter 
life  of  which  the  confession  had  been  made  to  me 
that  day,  and  I  felt  uneasy  and  frightened  at  my 
blissful  mood.  I  came  down  the  knoll  and  went  to 
the  house. 

"  Life,  as  he  thinks,  is  terrible,"  I  thought,  "  so 
don't  stand  on  ceremony  with  it,  bend  it  to  your  will, 
and  until  it  crushes  you,  snatch  all  you  can  wring 
from  it." 

Marya  Sergeyevna  was  standing  on  the  verandah. 
I  put  my  arms  round  her  without  a  word,  and  began 
greedily  kissing  her  eyebrows,  her  temples,  her 
neck.  .  .  . 

In  my  room  she  told  me  she  had  loved  me  for  a 
long  time,  more  than  a  year.  She  vowed  eternal 
love,  cried  and  begged  me  to  take  her  away  with  me. 
I  repeatedly  took  her  to  the  window  to  look  at  her 
face  in  the  moonlight,  and  she  seemed  to  me  a  lovely 
dream,  and  I  made  haste  to  hold  her  tight  to  con- 
vince myself  of  the  truth  of  it.  It  was  long  since  I 
had  known  such  raptures.  .  .  .  Yet  somewhere  far 
away  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  felt  an  awkward- 


82       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

ness,  and  I  was  ill  at  ease.  In  her  love  for  me  there 
was  something  incongruous  and  burdensome,  just  as 
in  Dmitri  Petrovitch's  friendship.  It  was  a  great, 
serious  passion  with  tears  and  vows,  and  I  wanted 
nothing  serious  in  it  —  no  tears,  no  vows,  no  talk  of 
the  future.  Let  that  moonlight  night  flash  through 
our  lives  like  a  meteor  and  —  basta! 

At  three  o'clock  she  went  out  of  my  room,  and, 
while  I  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  looking  after 
her,  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  Dmitri  Petrovitch 
suddenly  made  his  appearance;  she  started  and  stood 
aside  to  let  him  pass,  and  her  whole  figure  was  ex- 
pressive of  repulsion.  He  gave  a  strange  smile, 
coughed,  and  came  into  my  room. 

"  I  forgot  my  cap  here  yesterday,"  he  said  without 
looking  at  me. 

He  found  it  and,  holding  it  in  both  hands,  put  it 
on  his  head;  then  he  looked  at  my  confused  face,  at 
my  slippers,  and  said  in  a  strange,  husky  voice  unlike 
his  own: 

"  I  suppose  it  must  be  my  fate  that  I  should  under- 
stand nothing.  ...  If  you  understand  anything,  I 
congratulate  you.  It's  all  darkness  before  my  eyes." 

And  he  went  out,  clearing  his  throat.  After- 
wards from  the  window  I  saw  him  by  the  stable, 
harnessing  the  horses  with  his  own  hands.  His 
hands  were  trembling,  he  was  in  nervous  haste  and 
kept  looking  round  at  the  house;  probably  he  was 


Terror  83 

feeling  terror.  Then  he  got  into  the  gig,  and,  with 
a  strange  expression  as  though  afraid  of  being  pur- 
sued, lashed  the  horses. 

Shortly  afterwards  I  set  off,  too.  The  sun  was 
already  rising,  and  the  mist  of  the  previous  day  clung 
timidly  to  the  bushes  and  the  hillocks.  On  the  box 
of  the  carriage  was  sitting  Forty  Martyrs;  he  had 
already  succeeded  in  getting  drunk  and  was  mutter- 
ing tipsy  nonsense. 

"  I  am  a  free  man,"  he  shouted  to  the  horses. 
"  Ah,  my  honeys,  I  am  a  nobleman  in  my  own  right, 
if  you  care  to  know!  " 

The  terror  of  Dmitri  Petrovitch,  the  thought  of 
whom  I  could  not  get  out  of  my  head,  infected  me. 
I  thought  of  what  had  happened  and  could  make 
nothing  of  it.  I  looked  at  the  rooks,  and  it  seemed 
so  strange  and  terrible  that  they  were  flying. 

"  Why  have  I  done  this?  "  I  kept  asking  myself  in 
bewilderment  and  despair.  '  Why  has  it  turned  out 
like  this  and  not  differently?  To  whom  and  for 
what  was  it  necessary  that  she  should  love  me  in 
earnest,  and  that  he  should  come  into  my  room  to 
fetch  his  cap?  What  had  a  cap  to  do  with  it?  " 

I  set  off  for  Petersburg  that  day,  and  I  have  not 
seen  Dmitri  Petrovitch  nor  his  wife  since.  I  am  told 
that  they  are  still  living  together. 


A  WOMAN'S  KINGDOM 


A  WOMAN'S  KINGDOM 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 

HERE  was  a  thick  roll  of  notes.  It  came  from  the 
bailiff  at  the  forest  villa;  he  wrote  that  he  was  send- 
ing fifteen  hundred  roubles,  which  he  had  been 
awarded  as  damages,  having  won  an  appeal.  Anna 
Akimovna  disliked  and  feared  such  words  as 
"  awarded  damages "  and  "  won  the  suit."  She 
knew  that  it  was  impossible  to  do  without  the  law, 
but  for  some  reason,  whenever  Nazaritch,  the  man- 
ager of  the  factory,  or  the  bailiff  of  her  villa  in  the 
country,  both  of  whom  frequently  went  to  law,  used 
to  win  lawsuits  of  some  sort  for  her  benefit,  she 
always  felt  uneasy  and,  as  it  were,  ashamed.  On 
this  occasion,  too,  she  felt  uneasy  and  awkward,  and 
wanted  to  put  that  fifteen  hundred  roubles  further 
away  that  it  might  be  out  of  her  sight. 

She  thought  with  vexation  that  other  girls  of  her 
age  —  she  was  in  her  twenty-sixth  year  —  were  now 
busy  looking  after  their  households,  were  weary  and 
would  sleep  sound,  and  would  wake  up  tomorrow 

87 


88       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

morning  in  holiday  mood;  many  of  them  had  long 
been  married  and  had  children.  Only  she,  for  some 
reason,  was  compelled  to  sit  like  an  old  woman  over 
these  letters,  to  make  notes  upon  them,  to  write 
answers,  then  to  do  nothing  the  whole  evening  till 
midnight,  but  wait  till  she  was  sleepy;  and  tomorrow 
they  would  all  day  long  be  coming  with  Christmas 
greetings  and  asking  for  favours;  and  the  day  after 
tomorrow  there  would  certainly  be  some  scandal  at 
the  factory  —  some  one  would  be  beaten  or  would 
die  of  drinking  too  much  vodka,  and  she  would  be 
fretted  by  pangs  of  conscience ;  and  after  the  holidays 
Nazaritch  would  turn  off  some  twenty  of  the  work- 
people for  absence  from  work,  and  all  of  the  twenty 
would  hang  about  at  the  front  door,  without  their 
caps  on,  and  she  would  be  ashamed  to  go  out  to 
them,  and  they  would  be  driven  away  like  dogs. 
And  all  her  acquaintances  would  say  behind  her  back, 
and  write  to  her  in  anonymous  letters,  that  she  was 
a  millionaire  and  exploiter  —  that  she  was  devour- 
ing other  men's  lives  and  sucking  the  blood  of  the 
workers. 

Here  there  lay  a  heap  of  letters  read  through  and 
laid  aside  already.  They  were  all  begging  letters. 
They  were  from  people  who  were  hungry,  drunken, 
dragged  down  by  large  families,  sick,  degraded,  de- 
spised. .  .  .  Anna  Akimovna  had  already  noted  on 
each  letter,  three  roubles  to  be  paid  to  one,  five  to 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  89 

another;  these  letters  would  go  the  same  day  to  the 
office,  and  next  the  distribution  of  assistance  would 
take  place,  or,  as  the  clerks  used  to  say,  the  beasts 
would  be  fed. 

They  would  distribute  also  in  small  sums  four  hun- 
dred and  seventy  roubles  —  the  interest  on  a  sum  be- 
queathed by  the  late  Akim  Ivanovitch  for  the  relief 
of  the  poor  and  needy.  There  would  be  a  hideous 
crush.  From  the  gates  to  the  doors  of  the  office 
there  would  stretch  a  long  file  of  strange  people  with 
brutal  faces,  in  rags,  numb  with  cold,  hungry  and 
already  drunk,  in  husky  voices  calling  down  blessings 
upon  Anna  Akimovna,  their  benefactress,  and  her 
parents:  those  at  the  back  would  press  upon  those  in 
front,  and  those  in  front  would  abuse  them  with  bad 
language.  The  clerk  would  get  tired  of  the  noise, 
the  swearing,  and  the  sing-song  whining  and  bless- 
ing; would  fly  out  and  give  some  one  a  box  on  the 
ear  to  the  delight  of  all.  And  her  own  people,  the 
factory  hands,  who  received  nothing  at  Christmas 
but  their  wages,  and  had  already  spent  every  farthing 
of  it,  would  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  yard,  looking 
on  and  laughing  —  some  enviously,  others  ironically. 

"  Merchants,  and  still  more  their  wives,  are  fon- 
der of  beggars  than  they  are  of  their  own  work- 
people," thought  Anna  Akimovna.  "  It's  always 
so." 

Her  eye  fell  upon  the  roll  of  money.     It  would 


90        The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

be  nice  to  distribute  that  hateful,  useless  money 
among  the  workpeople  tomorrow,  but  it  did  not  do 
to  give  the  workpeople  anything  for  nothing,  or  they 
would  demand  it  again  next  time.  And  what  would 
be  the  good  of  fifteen  hundred  roubles  when  there 
were  eighteen  hundred  workmen  in  the  factory  be- 
sides their  wives  and  children?  Or  she  might,  per- 
haps, pick  out  one  of  the  writers  of  those  begging 
letters  —  some  luckless  man  who  had  long  ago  lost 
all  hope  of  anything  better,  and  give  him  the  fifteen 
hundred.  The  money  would  come  upon  the  poor 
creature  like  a  thunder-clap,  and  perhaps  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  would  feel  happy.  This  idea 
struck  Anna  Akimovna  as  original  and  amusing,  and 
it  fascinated  her.  She  took  one  letter  at  random  out 
of  the  pile  and  read  it.  Some  petty  official  called 
Tchalikov  had  long  been  out  of  a  situation,  was  ill, 
and  living  in  Gushtchin's  Buildings;  his  wife  was  in 
consumption,  and  he  had  five  little  girls.  Anna 
Akimovna  knew  well  the  four-storeyed  house,  Gusht- 
chin's Buildings,  in  which  Tchalikov  lived.  Oh,  it 
was  a  horrid,  foul,  unhealthy  house ! 

"  Well,  I  will  give  it  to  that  Tchalikov,"  she  de- 
cided. "  I  won't  send  it;  I  had  better  take  it  myself 
to  prevent  unnecessary  talk.  Yes,"  she  reflected,  as 
she  put  the  fifteen  hundred  roubles  in  her  pocket, 
"  and  I'll  have  a  look  at  them,  and  perhaps  I  can  do 
something  for  the  little  girls." 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  91 

She  felt  light-hearted;  she  rang  the  bell  and  or- 
dered the  horses  to  be  brought  round. 

When  she  got  into  the  sledge  it  was  past  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening.  The  windows  in  all  the  blocks  of 
buildings  were  brightly  lighted  up,  and  that  made 
the  huge  courtyard  seem  very  dark:  at  the  gates, 
and  at  the  far  end  of  the  yard  near  the  warehouses 
and  the  workpeople's  barracks,  electric  lamps  were 
gleaming. 

Anna  Akimovna  disliked  and  feared  those  huge 
dark  buildings,  warehouses,  and  barracks  where  the 
workmen  lived.  She  had  only  once  been  in  the  main 
building  since  her  father's  death.  The  high  ceilings 
with  iron  girders;  the  multitude  of  huge,  rapidly 
turning  wheels,  connecting  straps  and  levers;  the 
shrill  hissing;  the  clank  of  steel;  the  rattle  of  the 
trolleys;  the  harsh  puffing  of  steam;  the  faces  — 
pale,  crimson,  or  black  with  coal-dust;  the  shirts 
soaked  with  sweat;  the  gleam  of  steel,  of  copper, 
and  of  fire;  the  smell  of  oil  and  coal;  and  the 
draught,  at  times  very  hot  and  at  times  very  cold  — 
gave  her  an  impression  of  hell.  It  seemed  to  her  as 
though  the  wheels,  the  levers,  and  the  hot  hissing 
cylinders  were  trying  to  tear  themselves  away  from 
their  fastenings  to  crush  the  men,  while  the  men,  not 
hearing  one  another,  ran  about  with  anxious  faces, 
and  busied  themselves  about  the  machines,  trying  to 
stop  their  terrible  movement.  They  showed  Anna 


92       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

Akimovna  something  and  respectfully  explained  it  to 
her.  She  remembered  how  in  the  forge  a  piece  of 
red-hot  iron  was  pulled  out  of  the  furnace;  and  how 
an  old  man  with  a  strap  round  his  head,  and  another, 
a  young  man  in  a  blue  shirt  with  a  chain  on  his  breast, 
and  an  angry  face,  probably  one  of  the  foremen, 
struck  the  piece  of  iron  with  hammers;  and  how  the 
golden  sparks  had  been  scattered  in  all  directions; 
and  how,  a  little  afterwards,  they  had  dragged  out  a 
huge  piece  of  sheet-iron  with  a  clang.  The  old  man 
had  stood  erect  and  smiled,  while  the  young  man  had 
wiped  his  face  with  his  sleeve  and  explained  some- 
thing to  her.  And  she  remembered,  too,  how  in 
another  department  an  old  man  with  one  eye  had 
been  filing  a  piece  of  iron,  and  how  the  iron  filings 
were  scattered  about;  and  how  a  red-haired  man  in 
black  spectacles,  with  holes  in  his  shirt,  had  been 
working  at  a  lathe,  making  something  out  of  a  piece 
of  steel:  the  lathe  roared  and  hissed  and  squeaked, 
and  Anna  Akimovna  felt  sick  at  the  sound,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  they  were  boring  into  her  ears. 
She  looked,  listened,  did  not  understand,  smiled  gra- 
ciously, and  felt  ashamed.  To  get  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  roubles  from  a  business  which  one  does 
not  understand  and  cannot  like  —  how  strange  it  is! 
And  she  had  not  once  been  in  the  workpeople's 
barracks.  There,  she  was  told,  it  was  damp;  there 
were  bugs,  debauchery,  anarchy.  It  was  an  aston- 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  93 

ishing  thing:  a  thousand  roubles  were  spent  annually 
on  keeping  the  barracks  in  good  order,  yet,  if  she 
were  to  believe  the  anonymous  letters,  the  condition 
of  the  workpeople  was  growing  worse  and  worse 
every  year. 

'  There  was  more  order  in  my  father's  day," 
thought  Anna  Akimovna,  as  she  drove  out  of  the 
yard,  "  because  he  had  been  a  workman  himself.  I 
know  nothing  about  it  and  only  do  silly  things." 

She  felt  depressed  again,  and  was  no  longer  glad 
that  she  had  come,  and  the  thought  of  the  lucky  man 
upon  whom  fifteen  hundred  roubles  would  drop  from 
heaven  no  longer  struck  her  as  original  and  amusing. 
To  go  to  some  Tchalikov  or  other,  when  at  home  a 
business  worth  a  million  was  gradually  going  to 
pieces  and  being  ruined,  and  the  workpeople  in  the 
barracks  were  living  worse  than  convicts,  meant 
doing  something  silly  and  cheating  her  conscience. 
Along  the  highroad  and  across  the  fields  near  it, 
workpeople  from  the  neighbouring  cotton  and  paper 
factories  were  walking  towards  the  lights  of  the 
town.  There  was  the  sound  of  talk  and  laughter  in 
the  frosty  air.  Anna  Akimovna  looked  at  the 
women  and  young  people,  and  she  suddenly  felt  a 
longing  for  a  plain  rough  life  among  a  crowd.  She 
recalled  vividly  that  far-away  time  when  she  used  to 
be  called  Anyutka,  when  she  was  a  little  girl  and  used 
to  lie  under  the  same  quilt  with  her  mother,  while  a 


94       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

washerwoman  who  lodged  with  them  used  to  wash 
clothes  in  the  next  room ;  while  through  the  thin  walls 
there  came  from  the  neighbouring  flats  sounds  of 
laughter,  swearing,  children's  crying,  the  accordion, 
and  the  whirr  of  carpenters'  lathes  and  sewing-ma- 
chines; while  her  father,  Akim  Ivanovitch,  who  was 
clever  at  almost  every  craft,  would  be  soldering 
something  near  the  stove,  or  drawing  or  planing, 
taking  no  notice  whatever  of  the  noise  and  stuffiness. 
And  she  longed  to  wash,  to  iron,  to  run  to  the  shop 
and  the  tavern  as  she  used  to  do  every  day  when  she 
lived  with  her  mother.  She  ought  to  have  been  a 
work-girl  and  not  the  factory  owner!  Her  big 
house  with  its  chandeliers  and  pictures;  her  footman 
Mishenka,  with  his  glossy  moustache  and  swallow- 
tail coat;  the  devout  and  dignified  Varvarushka,  and 
smooth-tongued  Agafyushka;  and  the  young  people 
of  both  sexes  who  came  almost  every  day  to  ask  her 
for  money,  and  with  whom  she  always  for  some  rea- 
son felt  guilty;  and  the  clerks,  the  doctors,  and  the 
ladies  who  were  charitable  at  her  expense,  who  flat- 
tered her  and  secretly  despised  her  for  her  humble 
origin  —  how  wearisome  and  alien  it  all  was  to  her ! 
Here  was  the  railway  crossing  and  the  city  gate; 
then  came  houses  alternating  with  kitchen  gardens; 
and  at  last  the  broad  street  where  stood  the  re- 
nowned Gushtchin's  Buildings.  The  street,  usually 
quiet,  was  now  on  Christmas  Eve  full  of  life  and 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  95 

movement.  The  eating-houses  and  beer-shops  were 
noisy.  If  some  one  who  did  not  belong  to  that 
quarter  but  lived  in  the  centre  of  the  town  had  driven 
through  the  street  now,  he  would  have  noticed  noth- 
ing but  dirty,  drunken,  and  abusive  people;  but  Anna 
Akimovna,  who  had  lived  in  those  parts  all  her  life, 
was  constantly  recognizing  in  the  crowd  her  own 
father  or  mother  or  uncle.  Her  father  was  a  soft 
fluid  character,  a  little  fantastical,  frivolous,  and 
irresponsible.  He  did  not  care  for  money,  respect- 
ability, or  power;  he  used  to  say  that  a  working  man 
had  no  time  to  keep  the  holy-days  and  go  to  church; 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  wife,  he  would  probably 
never  have  gone  to  confession,  taken  the  sacrament 
or  kept  the  fasts.  While  her  uncle,  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch,  on  the  contrary,  was  like  flint;  in  everything 
relating  to  religion,  politics,  and  morality,  he  was 
harsh  and  relentless,  and  kept  a  strict  watch,  not  only 
over  himself,  but  also  over  all  his  servants  and  ac- 
quaintances. God  forbid  that  one  should  go  into  his 
room  without  crossing  oneself  before  the  ikon! 
The  luxurious  mansion  in  which  Anna  Akimovna 
now  lived  he  had  always  kept  locked  up,  and  only 
opened  it  on  great  holidays  for  important  visitors, 
while  he  lived  himself  in  the  office,  in  a  little  room 
covered  with  ikons.  He  had  leanings  towards  the 
Old  Believers,  and  was  continually  entertaining 
priests  and  bishops  of  the  old  ritual,  though  he  had 


96       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

been  christened,  and  married,  and  had  buried  his 
wife  in  accordance  with  the  Orthodox  rites.  He 
disliked  Akim,  his  only  brother  and  his  heir,  for  his 
frivolity,  which  he  called  simpleness  and  folly,  and 
for  his  indifference  to  religion.  He  treated  him  as 
an  inferior,  kept  him  in  the  position  of  a  workman, 
paid  him  sixteen  roubles  a  month.  Akim  addressed 
his  brother  with  formal  respect,  and  on  the  days  of 
asking  forgiveness,  he  and  his  wife  and  daughter 
bowed  down  to  the  ground  before  him.  But  three 
years  before  his  death  Ivan  Ivanovitch  had  drawn 
closer  to  his  brother,  forgave  his  shortcomings,  and 
ordered  him  to  get  a  governess  for  Anyutka. 

There  was  a  dark,  deep,  evil-smelling  archway  un- 
der Gushtchin's  Buildings;  there  was  a  sound  of  men 
coughing  near  the  walls.  Leaving  the  sledge  in  the 
street,  Anna  Akimovna  went  in  at  the  gate  and  there 
inquired  how  to  get  to  No.  46  to  see  a  clerk  called 
Tchalikov.  She  was  directed  to  the  furthest  door 
on  the  right  in  the  third  story.  And  in  the  court- 
yard and  near  the  outer  door,  and  even  on  the  stairs, 
there  was  still  the  same  loathsome  smell  as  under  the 
archway.  In  Anna  Akimovna's  childhood,  when  her 
father  was  a  simple  workman,  she  used  to  live  in  a 
building  like  that,  and  afterwards,  when  their  cir- 
cumstances were  different,  she  had  often  visited  them 
in  the  character  of  a  Lady  Bountiful.  The  narrow 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  97 

stone  staircase  with  its  steep  dirty  steps,  with  land- 
ings at  every  story;  the  greasy  swinging  lanterns; 
the  stench;  the  troughs,  pots,  and  rags  on  the  land- 
ings near  the  doors, —  all  this  had  been  familiar  to 
her  long  ago.  .  .  .  One  door  was  open,  and  within 
could  be  seen  Jewish  tailors  in  caps,  sewing.  Anna 
Akimovna  met  people  on  the  stairs,  but  it  never 
entered  her  head  that  people  might  be  rude  to  her. 
She  was  no  more  afraid  of  peasants  or  workpeople, 
drunk  or  sober,  than  of  her  acquaintances  of  the  ed- 
ucated class. 

There  was  no  entry  at  No.  46;  the  door  opened 
straight  into  the  kitchen.  As  a  rule  the  dwellings  of 
workmen  and  mechanics  smell  of  varnish,  tar,  hides, 
smoke,  according  to  the  occupation  of  the  tenant; 
the  dwellings  of  persons  of  noble  or  official  class  who 
have  come  to  poverty  may  be  known  ty  a  peculiar 
rancid,  sour  smell.  This  disgusting  smell  enveloped 
Anna  Akimovna  on  all  sides,  and  as  yet  she  was  only 
on  the  threshold.  A  man  in  a  black  coat,  no  doubt 
Tchalikov  himself,  was  sitting  in  a  corner  at  the 
table  with  his  back  to  the  door,  and  with  him  were 
five  little  girls.  The  eldest,  a  broad-faced  thin  girl 
with  a  comb  in  her  hair,  looked  about  fifteen,  while 
the  youngest,  a  chubby  child  with  hair  that  stood  up 
like  a  hedge-hog,  was  not  more  than  three.  All  the 
six  were  eating.  Near  the  stove  stood  a  very  thin 


98       The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

little  woman  with  a  yellow  face,  far  gone  in  preg- 
nancy. She  was  wearing  a  skirt  and  a  white  blouse, 
and  had  an  oven  fork  in  her  hand. 

"  I  did  not  expect  you  to  be  so  disobedient,  Liza," 
the  man  was  saying  reproachfully.  "  Fie,  fie,  for 
shame !  Do  you  want  papa  to  whip  you  —  eh?  " 

Seeing  an  unknown  lady  in  the  doorway,  the  thin 
woman  started,  and  put  down  the  fork. 

"  Vassily  Nikititch!  "  she  cried,  after  a  pause,  in 
a  hollow  voice,  as  though  she  could  not  believe  her 
eyes. 

The  man  looked  round  and  jumped  up.  He  was 
a  flat-chested,  bony  man  with  narrow  shoulders  and 
sunken  temples.  His  eyes  were  small  and  hollow 
with  dark  rings  round  them,  he  had  a  wide  mouth, 
and  a  long  nose  like  a  bird's  beak  —  a  little  bit  bent 
to  the  right.  His  beard  was  parted  in  the  mid- 
dle, his  moustache  was  shaven,  and  this  made  him 
look  more  like  a  hired  footman  than  a  government 
clerk. 

"Does  Mr.  Tchalikov  live  here?"  asked  Anna 
Akimovna. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  Tchalikov  answered  severely,  but 
immediately  recognizing  Anna  Akimovna,  he  cried: 
"  Anna  Akimovna!  "  and  all  at  once  he  gasped  and 
clasped  his  hands  as  though  in  terrible  alarm. 
"  Benefactress!  " 

With  a  moan  he  ran  to  her,  grunting  inarticulately 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  99 

as  though  he  were  paralyzed  —  there  was  cabbage 
on  his  beard  and  he  smelt  of  vodka  —  pressed  his 
forehead  to  her  muff,  and  seemed  as  though  he  were 
in  a  swoon. 

"  Your  hand,  your  holy  hand!  "  he  brought  out 
breathlessly.  "It's  a  dream,  a  glorious  dream! 
Children,  awaken  me!  " 

He  turned  towards  the  table  and  said  in  a  sobbing 
voice,  shaking  his  fists: 

"Providence  has  heard  us!  Our  saviour,  our 
angel,  has  come!  We  are  saved!  Children,  down 
on  your  knees !  on  your  knees  !  " 

MadameTchalikov  and  the  little  girls,  except  the 
youngest  one,  began  for  some  reason  rapidly  clearing 
the  table. 

"  You  wrote  that  your  wife  was  very  ill,"  said 
Anna  Akimovna,  and  she  felt  ashamed  and  an- 
noyed. "  I  am  not  going  to  give  them  the  fifteen 
hundred,"  she  thought. 

"  Here  she  is,  my  wife,"  said  Tchalikov  in  a  thin 
feminine  voice,  as  though  his  tears  had  gone  to  his 
head.  "  Here  she  is,  unhappy  creature  !  With  one 
foot  in  the  grave !  But  we  do  not  complain,  madam. 
Better  death  than  such  a  life.  Better  die,  unhappy 
woman!  " 

"  Why  is  he  playing  these  antics?  "  thought  Anna 
Akimovna  with  annoyance.  "  One  can  see  at  once 
he  is  used  to  dealing  with  merchants." 


100     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  Speak  to  me  like  a  human  being,"  she  said.  "  I 
don't  care  for  farces." 

"  Yes,  madam;  five  bereaved  children  round  their 
mother's  coffin  with  funeral  candles  —  that's  a 
farce?  Eh?"  said  Tchalikov  bitterly,  and  turned 
away. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  whispered  his  wife,  and  she 
pulled  at  his  sleeve.  "  The  place  has  not  been  tidied 
up,  madam,"  she  said,  addressing  Anna  Akimovna; 
"  please  excuse  it  ...  you  know  what  it  is  where 
there  are  children.  A  crowded  hearth,  but  har- 
mony." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  give  them  the  fifteen  hun- 
dred," Anna  Akimovna  thought  again. 

And  to  escape  as  soon  as  possible  from  these 
people  and  from  the  sour  smell,  she  brought  out  her 
purse  and  made  up  her  mind  to  leave  them  twenty- 
five  roubles,  not  more;  but  she  suddenly  felt  ashamed 
that  she  had  come  so  far  and  disturbed  people  for 
so  little. 

"  If  you  give  me  paper  and  ink,  I  will  write  at  once 
to  a  doctor  who  is  a  friend  of  mine  to  come  and  see 
you,"  she  said,  flushing  red.  "  He  is  a  very  good 
doctor.  And  I  will  leave  you  some  money  for  med- 
icine." 

Madame  Tchalikov  was  hastening  to  wipe  the 
table. 

"  It's  messy  here !     What  are  you  doing?  "  hissed 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  101 

Tchalikov,  looking  at  her  wrathfully.  ''  Take  her 
to  the  lodger's  room!  I  make  bold  to  ask  you, 
madam,  to  step  into  the  lodger's  room,"  he  said, 
addressing  Anna  Akimovna.  "  It's  clean  there." 

"  Osip  Ilyitch  told  us  not  to  go  into  his  room!  " 
said  one  of  the  little  girls,  sternly. 

But  they  had  already  led  Anna  Akimovna  out  of 
the  kitchen,  through  a  narrow  passage  room  between 
two  bedsteads :  it  was  evident  from  the  arrangement 
of  the  beds  that  in  one  two  slept  lengthwise,  and  in 
the  other  three  slept  across  the  bed.  In  the  lodger's 
room,  that  came  next,  it  really  was  clean.  A  neat- 
looking  bed  with  a  red  woollen  quilt,  a  pillow  in  a 
white  pillow-case,  even  a  slipper  for  the  watch,  a 
table  covered  with  a  hempen  cloth  and  on  it,  an  ink- 
stand of  milky-looking  glass,  pens,  paper,  photo- 
graphs in  frames  —  everything  as  it  ought  to  be;  and 
another  table  for  rough  work,  on  which  lay  tidily 
arranged  a  watchmaker's  tools  and  watches  taken 
to  pieces.  On  the  walls  hung  hammers,  pliers,  awls, 
chisels,  nippers,  and  so  on,  and  there  were  three 
hanging  clocks  which  were  ticking;  one  was  a  big 
clock  with  thick  weights,  such  as  one  sees  in  eating- 
houses. 

As  she  sat  down  to  write  the  letter,  Anna  Aki- 
movna saw  facing  her  on  the  table  the  photographs 
of  her  father  and  of  herself.  That  surprised 
her. 


102      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  Who  lives  here  with  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  Our  lodger,  madam,  Pimenov.  He  works  in 
your  factory." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  he  must  be  a  watchmaker." 

"  He  repairs  watches  privately,  in  his  leisure 
hours.  He  is  an  amateur." 

After  a  brief  silence  during  which  nothing  could 
be  heard  but  the  ticking  of  the  clocks  and  the  scratch- 
ing of  the  pen  on  the  paper,  Tchalikov  heaved  a  sigh 
and  said  ironically,  with  indignation : 

"  It's  a  true  saying:  gentle  birth  and  a  grade  in  the 
service  won't  put  a  coat  on  your  back.  A  cockade 
in  your  cap  and  a  noble  title,  but  nothing  to  eat.  To 
my  thinking,  if  any  one  of  humble  class  helps  the 
poor  he  is  much  more  of  a  gentleman  than  any 
Tchalikov  who  has  sunk  into  poverty  and  vice." 

To  flatter  Anna  Akimovna,  he  uttered  a  few  more 
disparaging  phrases  about  his  gentle  birth,  and  it  was 
evident  that  he  was  humbling  himself  because  he  con- 
sidered himself  superior  to  her.  Meanwhile  she 
had  finished  her  letter  and  had  sealed  it  up.  The 
letter  would  be  thrown  away  and  the  money  would 
not  be  spent  on  medicine  —  that  she  knew,  but  she 
put  twenty-five  roubles  on  the  table  all  the  same,  and 
after  a  moment's  thought,  added  two  more  red  notes. 
She  saw  the  wasted,  yellow  hand  of  Madame  Tchali- 
kov, like  the  claw  of  a  hen,  dart  out  and  clutch  the 
money  tight. 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  103 

"  You  have  graciously  given  this  for  medicine," 
said  Tchalikov  in  a  quivering  voice,  "  but  hold  out 
a  helping  hand  to  me  also  .  .  .  and  the  children !  " 
he  added  with  a  sob.  "  My  unhappy  children!  I 
am  not  afraid  for  myself;  it  is  for  my  daughters  I 
fear !  It's  the  hydra  of  vice  that  I  fear !  " 

Trying  to  open  her  purse,  the  catch  of  which  had 
gone  wrong,  Anna  Akimovna  was  confused  and 
turned  red.  She  felt  ashamed  that  people  should  be 
standing  before  her,  looking  at  her  hands  and  wait- 
ing, and  most  likely  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts 
laughing  at  her.  At  that  instant  some  one  came 
into  the  kitchen  and  stamped  his  feet,  knocking  the 
snow  off. 

"  The  lodger  has  come  in,"  said  Madame  Tchal- 
ikov. 

Anna  Akimovna  grew  even  more  confused.  She 
did  not  want  any  one  from  the  factory  to  find  her  in 
this  ridiculous  position.  As  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
the  lodger  came  in  at  the  very  moment  when,  having 
broken  the  catch  at  last,  she  was  giving  Tchalikov 
some  notes,  and  Tchalikov,  grunting  as  though  he 
were  paraylzed,  was  feeling  about  with  his  lips  where 
he  could  kiss  her.  In  the  lodger  she  recognized  the 
workman  who  had  once  clanked  the  sheet-iron  before 
her  in  the  forge,  and  had  explained  things  to  her. 
Evidently  he  had  come  in  straight  from  the  factory; 
his  face  looked  dark  and  grimy,  and  on  one  cheek 


104     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

near  his  nose  was  a  smudge  of  soot.  His  hands 
were  perfectly  black,  and  his  unbelted  shirt  shone 
with  oil  and  grease.  He  was  a  man  of  thirty,  of 
medium  height,  with  black  hair  and  broad  shoulders, 
and  a  look  of  great  physical  strength.  At  the  first 
glance  Anna  Akimovna  perceived  that  he  must  be  a 
foreman,  who  must  be  receiving  at  least  thirty-five 
roubles  a  month,  and  a  stern,  loud-voiced  man  who 
struck  the  workmen  in  the  face;  all  this  was  evident 
from  his  manner  of  standing,  from  the  attitude  he 
involuntarily  assumed  at  once  on  seeing  a  lady  in  his 
room,  and  most  of  all  from  the  fact  that  he  did  not 
wear  top-boots,  that  he  had  breast  pockets,  and  a 
pointed,  picturesquely  clipped  beard.  Her  father, 
Akim  Ivanovitch,  had  been  the  brother  of  the  fac- 
tory owner,  and  yet  he  had  been  afraid  of  foremen 
like  this  lodger  and  had  tried  to  win  their  favour. 

"  Excuse  me  for  having  come  in  here  in  your 
absence,"  said  Anna  Akimovna. 

The  workman  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  smiled  in 
confusion  and  did  not  speak. 

"  You  must  speak  a  little  louder,  madam  .  .  ." 
said  Tchalikov  softly.  "  When  Mr.  Pimenov  comes 
home  from  the  factory  in  the  evenings  he  is  a  little 
hard  of  hearing." 

But  Anna  Akimovna  was  by  now  relieved  that 
there  was  nothing  more  for  her  to  do  here;  she 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  105 

nodded  to  them  and  went  rapidly  out  of  the  room. 
Pimenov  went  to  see  her  out. 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  our  employment?  "  she 
asked  in  a  loud  voice,  without  turning  to  him. 

"  From  nine  years  old.  I  entered  the  factory  in 
your  uncle's  time." 

"  That's  a  long  while!  My  uncle  and  my  father 
knew  all  the  workpeople,  and  I  know  hardly  any  of 
them.  I  had  seen  you  before,  but  I  did  not  know 
your  name  was  Pimenov." 

Anna  Akimovna  felt  a  desire  to  justify  herself 
before  him,  to  pretend  that  she  had  just  given  the 
money  not  seriously,  but  as  a  joke. 

"  Oh,  this  poverty,"  she  sighed.  "  We  give  char- 
ity on  holidays  and  working  days,  and  still  there  is 
no  sense  in  it.  I  believe  it  is  useless  to  help  such 
people  as  this  Tchalikov." 

"  Of  course  it  is  useless,"  he  agreed.  "  However 
much  you  give  him,  he  will  drink  it  all  away.  And 
now  the  husband  and  wife  will  be  snatching  it  from 
one  another  and  fighting  all  night,"  he  added  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Yes,  one  must  admit  that  our  philanthropy  is 
useless,  boring,  and  absurd.  But  still,  you  must 
agree,  one  can't  sit  with  one's  hand  in  one's  lap;  one 
must  do  something.  What's  to  be  done  with  the 
Tchalikovs,  for  instance?  " 


io6     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

She  turned  to  Pimenov  and  stopped,  expecting 
an  answer  from  him;  he,  too,  stopped  and  slowly, 
without  speaking,  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Obvi- 
ously he  knew  what  to  do  with  the  Tchalikovs,  but 
the  treatment  would  have  been  so  coarse  and  inhu- 
man that  he  did  not  venture  to  put  it  into  words. 
And  the  Tchalikovs  were  to  him  so  utterly  uninter- 
esting and  worthless,  that  a  moment  later  he  had  for- 
gotten them;  looking  into  Anna  Akimovna's  eyes,  he 
smiled  with  pleasure,  and  his  face  wore  an  expres- 
sion as  though  he  were  dreaming  about  something 
very  pleasant.  Only,  now  standing  close  to  him, 
Anna  Akimovna  saw  from  his  face,  and  especially 
from  his  eyes,  how  exhausted  and  sleepy  he  was. 

"  Here,  I  ought  to  give  him  the  fifteen  hundred 
roubles!"  she  thought,  but  for  some  reason  this 
idea  seemed  to  her  incongruous  and  insulting  to 
Pimenov. 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  aching  all  over  after  your 
work,  and  you  come  to  the  door  with  me,"  she  said 
as  they  went  down  the  stairs.  "  Go  home." 

But  he  did  not  catch  her  words.  When  they 
came  out  into  the  street,  he  ran  on  ahead,  unfastened 
the  cover  of  the  sledge,  and  helping  Anna  Akimovna 
in,  said: 

"  I  wish  you  a  happy  Christmas!  " 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  107 

II 

CHRISTMAS  MORNING 

"They  have  left  off  ringing  ever  so  long!  It's 
dreadful;  you  won't  be  there  before  the  service  is 
over!  Get  up!  " 

"  Two  horses  are  racing,  racing  .  .  ."  said  Anna 
Akimovna,  and  she  woke  up;  before  her,  candle  in 
hand,  stood  her  maid,  red-haired  Masha.  "  Well, 
what  is  it?  " 

"  Service  is  over  already,"  said  Masha  with  de- 
spair. "  I  have  called  you  three  times!  Sleep  till 
evening  for  me,  but  you  told  me  yourself  to  call 
you!" 

Anna  Akimovna  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and 
glanced  towards  the  window.  It  was  still  quite  dark 
outside,  and  only  the  lower  edge  of  the  window- 
frame  was  white  with  snow.  She  could  hear  a  low, 
mellow  chime  of  bells;  it  was  not  the  parish  church, 
but  somewhere  further  away.  The  watch  on  the 
little  table  showed  three  minutes  past  six. 

"  Very  well,  Masha.  ...  In  three  minutes  .  .  ." 
said  Anna  Akimovna  in  an  imploring  voice,  and  she 
snuggled  under  the  bed-clothes. 

She  imagined  the  snow  at  the  front  door,  the 
sledge,  the  dark  sky,  the  crowd  in  the  church,  and 


108     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

the  smell  of  juniper,  and  she  felt  dread  at  the 
thought;  but  all  the  same,  she  made  up  her  mind 
that  she  would  get  up  at  once  and  go  to  early  service. 
And  while  she  was  warm  in  bed  and  struggling  with 
sleep  —  which  seems,  as  though  to  spite  one,  partic- 
ularly sweet  when  one  ought  to  get  up  —  and  while 
she  had  visions  of  an  immense  garden  on  a  mountain 
and  then  Gushtchin's  Buildings,  she  was  worried  all 
the  time  by  the  thought  that  she  ought  to  get  up  that 
very  minute  and  go  to  church. 

But  when  she  got  up  it  was  quite  light,  and  it 
turned  out  to  be  half-past  nine.  There  had  been  a 
heavy  fall  of  snow  in  the  night;  the  trees  were 
clothed  in  white,  and  the  air  was  particularly  light, 
transparent,  and  tender,  so  that  when  Anna  Akim- 
ovna  looked  out  of  the  window  her  first  impulse  was 
to  draw  a  deep,  deep  breath.  And  when  she  had 
washed,  a  relic  of  far-away  childish  feelings  —  joy 
that  today  was  Christmas  —  suddenly  stirred  within 
her;  after  that  she  felt  light-hearted,  free  and  pure 
in  soul,  as  though  her  soul,  too,  had  been  washed  or 
plunged  in  the  white  snow.  Masha  came  in,  dressed 
up  and  tightly  laced,  and  wished  her  a  happy  Christ- 
mas; then  she  spent  a  long  time  combing  her  mis- 
tress's hair  and  helping  her  to  dress.  The  fragrance 
and  feeling  of  the  new,  gorgeous,  splendid  dress,  its 
faint  rustle,  and  the  smell  of  fresh  scent,  excited 
Anna  Akimovna. 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  109 

"  Well,  it's  Christmas,"  she  said  gaily  to  Masha. 
"  Now  we  will  try  our  fortunes." 

"  Last  year,  I  was  to  marry  an  old  man.  It 
turned  up  three  times  the  same." 

"  Well,  God  is  merciful." 

"  Well,  Anna  Akimovna,  what  I  think  is,  rather 
than  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other,  I'd  marry  an 
old  man,"  said  Masha  mournfully,  and  she  heaved  a 
sigh.  "  I  am  turned  twenty;  it's  no  joke." 

Every  one  in  the  house  knew  that  red-haired 
Masha  was  in  love  with  Mishenka,  the  footman,  and 
this  genuine,  passionate,  hopeless  love  had  already 
lasted  three  years. 

"  Come,  don't  talk  nonsense,"  Anna  Akimovna 
consoled  her.  "  I  am  going  on  for  thirty,  but  I  am 
still  meaning  to  marry  a  young  man." 

While  his  mistress  was  dressing,  Mishenka,  in  a 
new  swallow-tail  and  polished  boots,  walked  about 
the  hall  and  drawing-room  and  waited  for  her  to 
come  out,  to  wish  her  a  happy  Christmas.  He  had 
a  peculiar  walk,  stepping  softly  and  delicately;  look- 
ing at  his  feet,  his  hands,  and  the  bend  of  his  head, 
it  might  be  imagined  that  he  was  not  simply  walking, 
but  learning  to  dance  the  first  figure  of  a  quadrille. 
In  spite  of  his  fine  velvety  moustache  and  handsome, 
rather  flashy  appearance,  he  was  steady,  prudent, 
and  devout  as  an  old  man.  He  said  his  prayers, 
bowing  down  to  the  ground,  and  liked  burning  in- 


no     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

cense  in  his  room.  He  respected  people  of  wealth 
and  rank  and  had  a  reverence  for  them;  he  despised 
poor  people,  and  all  who  came  to  ask  favours  of  any 
kind,  with  all  the  strength  of  his  cleanly  flunkey  soul. 
Under  his  starched  shirt  he  wore  a  flannel,  winter 
and  summer  alike,  being  very  careful  of  his  health; 
his  ears  were  plugged  with  cotton-wool. 

When  Anna  Akimovna  crossed  the  hall  with 
Masha,  he  bent  his  head  downwards  a  little  and  said 
in  his  agreeable,  honeyed  voice : 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  congratulate  you,  Anna 
Akimovna,  on  the  most  solemn  feast  of  the  birth  of 
our  Lord." 

Anna  Akimovna  gave  him  five  roubles,  while  poor 
Masha  was  numb  with  ecstasy.  His  holiday  get-up, 
his  attitude,  his  voice,  and  what  he  said,  impressed 
her  by  their  beauty  and  elegance ;  as  she  followed  her 
mistress  she  could  think  of  nothing,  could  see  noth- 
ing, she  could  only  smile,  first  blissfully  and  then  bit- 
terly. The  upper  story  of  the  house  was  called  the 
best  or  visitors'  half,  while  the  name  of  the  business 
part  —  old  people's  or  simply  women's  part  —  was 
given  to  the  rooms  on  the  lower  story  where  Aunt 
Tatyana  Ivanovna  kept  house.  In  the  upper  part 
the  gentry  and  educated  visitors  were  entertained;  in 
the  lower  story,  simpler  folk  and  the  aunt's  personal 
friends.  Handsome,  plump,  and  healthy,  still 
young  and  fresh,  and  feeling  she  had  on  a  magnifi- 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  ill 

cent  dress  which  seemed  to  her  to  diffuse  a  sort  of 
radiance  all  about  her,  Anna  Akimovna  went  down 
to  the  lower  story.  Here  she  was  met  with  re- 
proaches for  forgetting  God  now  that  she  was  so 
highly  educated,  for  sleeping  too  late  for  the  service, 
and  for  not  coming  downstairs  to  break  the  fast,  and 
they  all  clasped  their  hands  and  exclaimed  with  per- 
fect sincerity  that  she  was  lovely,  wonderful;  and  she 
believed  it,  laughed,  kissed  them,  gave  one  a  rouble, 
another  three  or  five  according  to  their  position. 
She  liked  being  downstairs.  Wherever  one  looked 
there  were  shrines,  ikons,  little  lamps,  portraits  of 
ecclesiastical  personages  —  the  place  smelt  of 
monks;  there  was  a  rattle  of  knives  in  the  kitchen, 
and  already  a  smell  of  something  savoury,  exceed- 
ingly appetizing,  was  pervading  all  the  rooms.  The 
yellow-painted  floors  shone,  and  from  the  doors 
narrow  rugs  with  bright  blue  stripes  ran  like  little 
paths  to  the  ikon  corner,  and  the  sunshine  was  simply 
pouring  in  at  the  windows. 

In  the  dining-room  some  old  women,  strangers, 
were  sitting;  in  Varvarushka's  room,  too,  there  were 
old  women,  and  with  them  a  deaf  and  dumb  girl,  who 
seemed  abashed  about  something  and  kept  saying, 
"  Bli,  bli!  .  .  ."  Two  skinny-looking  little  girls 
who  had  been  brought  out  of  the  orphanage  for 
Christmas  came  up  to  kiss  Anna  Akimovna's  hand, 
and  stood  before  her  transfixed  with  admiration  of 


112      The  Party  and  Other  Stones 

her  splendid  dress;  she  noticed  that  one  of  the  girls 
squinted,  and  in  the  midst  of  her  light-hearted  holi- 
day mood  she  felt  a  sick  pang  at  her  heart  at  the 
thought  that  young  men  would  despise  the  girl,  and 
that  she  would  never  marry.  In  the  cook  Agafya's 
room,  five  huge  peasants  in  new  shirts  were  sitting 
round  the  samovar;  these  were  not  workmen  from 
the  factory,  but  relations  of  the  cook.  Seeing  Anna 
Akimovna,  all  the  peasants  jumped  up  from  their 
seats,  and  from  regard  for  decorum,  ceased  munch- 
ing, though  their  mouths  were  full.  The  cook 
Stepan,  in  a  white  cap,  with  a  knife  in  his  hand,  came 
into  the  room  and  gave  her  his  greetings;  porters  in 
high  felt  boots  came  in,  and  they,  too,  offered  their 
greetings.  The  water-carrier  peeped  in  with  icicles 
on  his  beard,  but  did  not  venture  to  come  in. 

Anna  Akimovna  walked  through  the  rooms  fol- 
lowed by  her  retinue  —  the  aunt,  Varvarushka, 
Nikandrovna,  the  sewing-maid  Marfa  Petrovna, 
and  the  downstairs  Masha.  Varvarushka  —  a  tall, 
thin,  slender  woman,  taller  than  any  one  in  the 
house,  dressed  all  in  black,  smelling  of  cypress  and 
coffee  —  crossed  herself  in  each  room  before  the 
ikon,  bowing  down  from  the  waist.  And  whenever 
one  looked  at  her  one  was  reminded  that  she  had 
already  prepared  her  shroud  and  that  lottery  tickets 
were  hidden  away  by  her  in  the  same  box. 

"  Anyutinka,  be  merciful  at  Christmas,"  she  said, 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  113 

opening  the  door  into  the  kitchen.     u  Forgive  him, 
bless  the  man!     Have  done  with  it!  " 

The  coachman  Punteley,  who  had  been  dismissed 
for  drunkenness  in  November,  was  on  his  knees  in 
the  middle  of  the  kitchen.  He  was  a  good-natured 
man,  but  he  used  to  be  unruly  when  he  was  drunk, 
and  could  not  go  to  sleep,  but  persisted  in  wandering 
about  the  buildings  and  shouting  in  a  threatening 
voice,  "  I  know  all  about  it !  "  Now  from  his  beefy 
and  bloated  face  and  from  his  bloodshot  eyes  it  could 
be  seen  that  he  had  been  drinking  continually  from 
November  till  Christmas. 

"  Forgive  me,  Anna  Akimovna,"  he  brought  out 
in  a  hoarse  voice,  striking  his  forehead  on  the  floor 
and  showing  his  bull-like  neck. 

"  It  was  Auntie  dismissed  you;  ask  her." 
'What  about  auntie?"  said  her  aunt,  walking 
into  the  kitchen,  breathing  heavily;  she  was  very 
stout,  and  on  her  bosom  one  might  have  stood  a 
tray  of  teacups  and  a  samovar.  "  What  about 
auntie  now?  You  are  mistress  here,  give  your  own 
orders;  though  these  rascals  might  be  all  dead  for 
all  I  care.  Come,  get  up,  you  hog!  "  she  shouted 
at  Panteley,  losing  patience.  "  Get  out  of  my  sight ! 
It's  the  last  time  I  forgive  you,  but  if  you  transgress 
again  —  don't  ask  for  mercy!  " 

Then  they  went  into  the  dining-room  to  coffee. 
But  they  had  hardly  sat  down,  when  the  downstairs 


114     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

Masha  rushed  headlong  in,  saying  with  horror, 
"The  singers!"  And  ran  back  again.  They 
heard  some  one  blowing  his  nose,  a  low  bass  cough, 
and  footsteps  that  sounded  like  horses'  iron-shod 
hoofs  tramping  about  the  entry  near  the  hall.  For 
half  a  minute  all  was  hushed.  .  .  .  The  singers 
burst  out  so  suddenly  and  loudly  that  every  one 
started.  While  they  were  singing,  the  priest  from 
the  almshouses  with  the  deacon  and  the  sexton  ar- 
rived. Putting  on  the  stole,  the  priest  slowly  said 
that  when  they  were  ringing  for  matins  it  was  snow- 
ing and  not  cold,  but  that  the  frost  was  sharper  to- 
wards morning,  God  bless  it !  and  now  there  must 
be  twenty  degrees  of  frost. 

"  Many  people  maintain,  though,  that  winter  is 
healthier  than  summer,"  said  the  deacon;  then  im- 
mediately assumed  an  austere  expression  and 
chanted  after  the  priest.  "  Thy  Birth,  O  Christ 
our  Lord.  .  .  ." 

Soon  the  priest  from  the  workmen's  hospital  came 
with  the  deacon,  then  the  Sisters  from  the  hospital, 
children  from  the  orphanage,  and  then  singing  could 
be  heard  almost  uninterruptedly.  They  sang,  had 
lunch,  and  went  away. 

About  twenty  men  from  the  factory  came  to  offer 
their  Christmas  greetings.  They  were  only  the 
foremen,  mechanicians,  and  their  assistants,  the  pat- 
tern-makers, the  accountant,  and  so  on  —  all  of  good 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  115 

appearance,  in  new  black  coats.  They  were  all  first- 
rate  men,  as  it  were  picked  men;  each  one  knew  his 
value  —  that  is,  knew  that  if  he  lost  his  berth  to- 
day, people  would  be  glad  to  take  him  on  at  another 
factory.  Evidently  they  liked  Auntie,  as  they  be- 
haved freely  in  her  presence  and  even  smoked,  and 
when  they  had  all  trooped  in  to  have  something  to 
eat,  the  accountant  put  his  arm  round  her  immense 
waist.  They  were  free-and-easy,  perhaps,  partly 
also  because  Varvarushka,  who  under  the  old  mas- 
ters had  wielded  great  power  and  had  kept  watch 
over  the  morals  of  the  clerks,  had  now  no  authority 
whatever  in  the  house;  and  perhaps  because  many  of 
them  still  remembered  the  time  when  Auntie  Tat- 
yana  Ivanovna,  whose  brothers  kept  a  strict  hand 
over  her,  had  been  dressed  like  a  simple  peasant 
woman  like  Agafya,  and  when  Anna  Akimovna  used 
to  run  about  the  yard  near  the  factory  buildings  and 
every  one  used  to  call  her  Anyutya. 

The  foremen  ate,  talked,  and  kept  looking  with 
amazement  at  Anna  Akimovna,  how  she  had  grown 
up  and  how  handsome  she  had  become!  But  this 
elegant  girl,  educated  by  governesses  and  teachers, 
was  a  stranger  to  them;  they  could  not  understand 
her,  and  they  instinctively  kept  closer  to  "  Auntie," 
who  called  them  by  their  names,  continually  pressed 
them  to  eat  and  drink,  and,  clinking  glasses  with 
them,  had  already  drunk  two  wineglasses  of  rowan- 


ii6     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

berry  wine  with  them.  Anna  Akimovna  was  always 
afraid  of  their  thinking  her  proud,  an  upstart,  or  a 
crow  in  peacock's  feathers;  and  now  while  the  fore- 
men were  crowding  round  the  food,  she  did  not 
leave  the  dining-room,  but  took  part  in  the  conver- 
sation. She  asked  Pimenov,  her  acquaintance  of 
the  previous  day: 

"  Why  have  you  so  many  clocks  in  your  room?  " 

"  I  mend  clocks,"  he  answered.  "  I  take  the 
work  up  between  times,  on  holidays,  or  when  I  can't 
sleep." 

"  So  if  my  watch  goes  wrong  I  can  bring  it  to 
you  to  be  repaired?  "  Anna  Akimovna  asked,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  To  be  sure,  I  will  do  it  with  pleasure,"  said 
Pimenov,  and  there  was  an  expression  of  tender 
devotion  in  his  face,  when,  not  herself  knowing 
why,  she  unfastened  her  magnificent  watch  from 
its  chain  and  handed  it  to  him;  he  looked  at  it 
in  silence  and  gave  it  back.  "  To  be  sure,  I  will 
do  it  with  pleasure,"  he  repeated.  "  I  don't  mend 
watches  now.  My  eyes  are  weak,  and  the  doctors 
have  forbidden  me  to  do  fine  work.  But  for  you 
I  can  make  an  exception." 

"  Doctors  talk  nonsense,"  said  the  accountant. 
They  all  laughed.  "  Don't  you  believe  them,"  he 
went  on,  flattered  by  the  laughing;  "last  year  a 
tooth  flew  out  of  a  cylinder  and  hit  old  Kalmykov 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  117 

such  a  crack  on  the  head  that  you  could  see  his 
brains,  and  the  doctor  said  he  would  die;  but  he  is 
alive  and  working  to  this  day,  only  he  has  taken 
to  stammering  since  that  mishap." 

"  Doctors  do  talk  nonsense,  they  do,  but  not  so 
much,"  sighed  Auntie.  "  Pyotr  Andreyitch,  poor 
dear,  lost  his  sight.  Just  like  you,  he  used  to  work 
day  in  day  out  at  the  factory  near  the  hot  furnace, 
and  he  went  blind.  The  eyes  don't  like  heat.  But 
what  are  we  talking  about?  "  she  said,  rousing  her- 
self. "  Come  and  have  a  drink.  My  best  wishes 
for  Christmas,  my  dears.  I  never  drink  with  any 
one  else,  but  I  drink  with  you,  sinful  woman  as  I 
am.  Please  God!  " 

Anna  Akimovna  fancied  that  after  yesterday  Pi- 
menov  despised  her  as  a  philanthropist,  but  was 
fascinated  by  her  as  a  woman.  She  looked  at  him 
and  thought  that  he  behaved  very  charmingly  and 
was  nicely  dressed.  It  is  true  that  the  sleeves  of 
his  coat  were  not  quite  long  enough,  and  the  coat 
itself  seemed  short-waisted,  and  his  trousers  were 
not  wide  and  fashionable,  but  his  tie  was  tied  care- 
lessly and  with  taste  and  was  not  as  gaudy  as  the 
others'.  And  he  seemed  to  be  a  good-natured  man, 
for  he  ate  submissively  whatever  Auntie  put  on  his 
plate.  She  remembered  how  black  he  had  been  the 
day  before,  and  how  sleepy,  and  the  thought  of  it  for 
some  reason  touched  her. 


ii8     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

When  the  men  were  preparing  to  go,  Anna  Aki- 
movna  put  out  her  hand  to  Pimenov.  She  wanted 
to  ask  him  to  come  in  sometimes  to  see  her,  with- 
out ceremony,  but  she  did  not  know  how  to  —  her 
tongue  would  not  obey  her;  and  that  they  might  not 
think  she  was  attracted  by  Pimenov,  she  shook  hands 
with  his  companions,  too. 

Then  the  boys  from  the  school  of  which  she  was 
a  patroness  came.  They  all  had  their  heads  closely 
cropped  and  all  wore  grey  blouses  of  the  same  pat- 
tern. The  teacher  —  a  tall,  beardless  young  man 
with  patches  of  red  on  his  face  —  was  visibly  agi- 
tated as  he  formed  the  boys  into  rows;  the  boys 
sang  in  tune,  but  with  harsh,  disagreeable  voices. 
The  manager  of  the  factory,  Nazaritch,  a  bald, 
sharp-eyed  Old  Believer,  could  never  get  on  with 
the  teachers,  but  the  one  who  was  now  anxiously 
waving  his  hands  he  despised  and  hated,  though 
he  could  not  have  said  why.  He  behaved  rudely 
and  condescendingly  to  the  young  man,  kept  back 
his  salary,  meddled  with  the  teaching,  and  had  finally 
tried  to  dislodge  him  by  appointing,  a  fortnight  be- 
fore Christmas,  as  porter  to  the  school  a  drunken 
peasant,  a  distant  relation  of  his  wife's,  who  dis- 
obeyed the  teacher  and  said  rude  things  to  him  be- 
fore the  boys. 

Anna  Akimovna  was  aware  of  all  this,  but  she 
could  be  of  no  help,  for  she  was  afraid  of  Nazaritch 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  119 

herself.  Now  she  wanted  at  least  to  be  very  nice 
to  the  schoolmaster,  to  tell  him  she  was  very  much 
pleased  with  him;  but  when  after  the  singing  he 
began  apologizing  for  something  in  great  confusion, 
and  Auntie  began  to  address  him  familiarly  as  she 
drew  him  without  ceremony  to  the  table,  she  felt, 
for  some  reason,  bored  and  awkward,  and  giving 
orders  that  the  children  should  be  given  sweets,  went 
upstairs. 

"  In  reality  there  is  something  cruel  in  these 
Christmas  customs,"  she  said  a  little  while  after- 
wards, as  it  were  to  herself,  looking  out  of  window 
at  the  boys,  who  were  flocking  from  the  house  to 
the  gates  and  shivering  with  cold,  putting  their 
coats  on  as  they  ran.  "  At  Christmas  one  wants 
to  rest,  to  sit  at  home  with  one's  own  people,  and 
the  poor  boys,  the  teacher,  and  the  clerks  and  fore- 
men, are  obliged  for  some  reason  to  go  through  the 
frost,  then  to  offer  their  greetings,  show  their  re- 
spect, be  put  to  confusion  .  .  ." 

Mishenka,  who  was  standing  at  the  door  of  the 
drawing-room  and  overheard  this,  said: 

"  It  has  not  come  from  us,  and  it  will  not  end 
with  us.  Of  course,  I  am  not  an  educated  man, 
Anna  Akimovna,  but  I  do  understand  that  the  poor 
must  always  respect  the  rich.  It  is  well  said,  '  God 
marks  the  rogue.'  In  prisons,  night  refuges,  and 
pot-houses  you  never  see  any  but  the  poor,  while 


12O      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

decent  people,  you  may  notice,  are  always  rich.  It 
has  been  said  of  the  rich,  '  Deep  calls  to  deep.' ' 

"  You  always  express  yourself  so  tediously  and  in- 
comprehensibly," said  Anna  Akimovna,  and  she 
walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  big  drawing-room. 

It  was  only  just  past  eleven.  The  stillness  of  the 
big  room,  only  broken  by  the  singing  that  floated  up 
from  below,  made  her  yawn.  The  bronzes,  the 
albums,  and  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  representing 
a  ship  at  sea,  cows  in  a  meadow,  and  views  of  the 
Rhine,  were  so  absolutely  stale  that  her  eyes  simply 
glided  over  them  without  observing  them.  The 
holiday  mood  was  already  growing  tedious.  As  be- 
fore, Anna  Akimovna  felt  that  she  was  beautiful, 
good-natured,  and  wonderful,  but  now  it  seemed  to 
her  that  that  was  of  no  use  to  any  one;  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  did  not  know  for  whom  and  for  what 
she  had  put  on  this  expensive  dress,  too,  and,  as  al- 
ways happened  on  all  holidays,  she  began  to  be 
fretted  by  loneliness  and  the  persistent  thought  that 
her  beauty,  her  health,  and  her  wealth,  were  a  mere 
cheat,  since  she  was  not  wanted,  was  of  no  use  to 
any  one,  and  nobody  loved  her.  She  walked  through 
all  the  rooms,  humming  and  looking  out  of  window7; 
stopping  in  the  drawing-room,  she  could  not  resist 
beginning  to  talk  to  Mishenka. 

•"  I    don't   know    what    you    think    of   yourself, 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  121 

Misha,"  she  said,  and  heaved  a  sigh.  "  Really, 
God  might  punish  you  for  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  Excuse  my  meddling 
in  your  affairs.  But  it  seems  you  are  spoiling  your 
own  life  out  of  obstinacy.  You'll  admit  that  it  is 
high  time  you  got  married,  and  she  is  an  excellent 
and  deserving  girl.  You  will  never  find  any  one 
better.  She's  a  beauty,  clever,  gentle,  and  devoted. 
.  .  .  And  her  appearance!  ...  If  she  belonged  to 
our  circle  or  a  higher  one,  people  would  be  falling  in 
love  with  her  for  her  red  hair  alone.  See  how  beau- 
tifully her  hair  goes  with  her  complexion.  Oh, 
goodness !  You  don't  understand  anything,  and 
don't  know  what  you  want,"  Anna  Akimovna  said 
bitterly,  and  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "  Poor  girl, 
I  am  so  sorry  for  her !  I  know  you  want  a  wife 
with  money,  but  I  have  told  you  already  I  will  give 
Masha  a  dowry." 

Mishenka  could  not  picture  his  future  spouse  in 
his  imagination  except  as  a  tall,  plump,  substantial, 
pious  woman,  stepping  like  a  peacock,  and,  for  some 
reason,  with  a  long  shawl  over  her  shoulders ;  while 
Masha  was  thin,  slender,  tightly  laced,  and  walked 
with  little  steps,  and,  worst  of  all,  she  was  too  fasci- 
nating and  at  times  extremely  attractive  to  Mishenka, 
and  that,  in  his  opinion,  was  incongruous  with  matri- 


122      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

mony  and  only  in  keeping  with  loose  behaviour. 
When  Anna  Akimovna  had  promised  to  give  Masha 
a  dowry,  he  had  hesitated  for  a  time ;  but  once  a  poor 
student  in  a  brown  overcoat  over  his  uniform,  com- 
ing with  a  letter  for  Anna  Akimovna,  was  fascinated 
by  Masha,  and  could  not  resist  embracing  her  near 
the  hat-stand,  and  she  had  uttered  a  faint  shriek; 
Mishenka,  standing  on  the  stairs  above,  had  seen 
this,  and  from  that  time  had  begun  to  cherish  a 
feeling  of  disgust  for  Masha.  A  poor  student! 
Who  knows,  if  she  had  been  embraced  by  a  rich 
student  or  an  officer  the  consequences  might  have 
been  different. 

"  Why  don't  you  wish  it?"  Anna  Akimovna 
asked.  "  What  more  do  you  want?  " 

Mishenka  was  silent  and  looked  at  the  arm-chair 
fixedly,  and  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  Do  you  love  some  one  else?  " 

Silence.  The  red-haired  Masha  came  in  with  let- 
ters and  visiting  cards  on  a  tray.  Guessing  that  they 
were  talking  about  her,  she  blushed  to  tears. 

"  The  postmen  have  come,"  she  muttered.  "  And 
there  is  a  clerk  called  Tchalikov  waiting  below.  He 
says  you  told  him  to  come  to-day  for  something." 

"  What  insolence !  "  said  Anna  Akimovna,  moved 
to  anger.  "  I  gave  him  no  orders.  Tell  him  to 
take  himself  off;  say  I  am  not  at  home !  " 

A  ring  was  heard.     It  was  the  priests  from  her 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  123 

parish.  They  were  always  shown  into  the  aristo- 
cratic part  of  the  house  —  that  is,  upstairs.  After 
the  priests,  Nazaritch,  the  manager  of  the  factory, 
came  to  pay  his  visit,  and  then  the  factory  doctor; 
then  Mishenka  announced  the  inspector  of  the  ele- 
mentary schools.  Visitors  kept  arriving. 

When  there  was  a  moment  free,  Anna  Akimovna 
sat  down  in  a  deep  arm-chair  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  shutting  her  eyes,  thought  that  her  loneliness  was 
quite  natural  because  she  had  not  married  and  never 
would  marry.  .  .  .  But  that  was  not  her  fault. 
Fate  itself  had  flung  her  out  of  the  simple  working- 
class  surroundings  in  which,  if  she  could  trust  her 
memory,  she  had  felt  so  snug  and  at  home,  into  these 
immense  rooms,  where  she  could  never  think  what 
to  do  with  herself,  and  could  not  understand  why  so 
many  people  kept  passing  before  her  eyes.  What 
was  happening  now  seemed  to  her  trivial,  useless, 
since  it  did  not  and  could  not  give  her  happiness  for 
one  minute. 

"  If  I  could  fall  in  love,"  she  thought,  stretch- 
ing; the  very  thought  of  this  sent  a  rush  of  warmth 
to  her  heart.  "  And  if  I  could  escape  from  the 
factory  .  .  ."  she  mused,  imagining  how  the  weight 
of  those  factory  buildings,  barracks,  and  schools 
would  roll  oft  her  conscience,  roll  off  her  mind.  .  .  . 
Then  she  remembered  her  father,  and  thought  if 
he  had  lived  longer  he  would  certainly  have  married 


124     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

her  to  a  working  man  —  to  Pimenov,  for  instance. 
He  would  have  told  her  to  marry,  and  that  would 
have  been  all  about  it.  And  it  would  have  been  a 
good  thing;  then  the  factory  would  have  passed  into 
capable  hands. 

She  pictured  his  curly  head,  his  bold  profile,  his 
delicate,  ironical  lips  and  the  strength,  the  tremen- 
dous strength,  in  his  shoulders,  in  his  arms,  in  his 
chest,  and  the  tenderness  with  which  he  had  looked 
at  her  watch  that  day. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  it  would  have  been  all  right. 
...  I  would  have  married  him." 

"  Anna  Akimovna,"  said  Mishenka,  coming  noise- 
lessly into  the  drawing-room. 

"  How  you  frightened  me !  ''  she  said,  trembling 
all  over.  "  What  do  you  want?  " 

"  Anna  Akimovna,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on 
his  heart  and  raising  his  eyebrows,  "  you  are  my 
mistress  and  my  benefactress,  and  no  one  but  you 
can  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do  about  marriage, 
for  you  are  as  good  as  a  mother  to  me.  .  .  .  But 
kindly  forbid  them  to  laugh  and  jeer  at  me  down- 
stairs. They  won't  let  me  pass  without  it." 

"  How  do  they  jeer  at  you?  " 

"  They  call  me  Mashenka's  Mishenka." 

"  Pooh,  what  nonsense!  "  cried  Anna  Akimovna 
indignantly.  "  How  stupid  you  all  are !  What  a 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  125 

stupid  you  are,  Misha !     How  sick  I  am  of  you !     I 
can't  bear  the  sight  of  you." 


Ill 

DINNER 

Just  as  the  year  before,  the  last  to  pay  her  visits 
were  Krylin,  an  actual  civil  councillor,  and  Lyse- 
vitch,  a  well-known  barrister.  It  was  already  dark 
when  they  arrived.  Krylin,  a  man  of  sixty,  with  a 
wide  mouth  and  with  grey  whiskers  close  to  his  ears, 
with  a  face  like  a  lynx,  was  wearing  a  uniform  with 
an  Anna  ribbon,  and  white  trousers.  He  held  Anna 
Akimovna's  hand  in  both  of  his  for  a  long  while, 
looked  intently  in  her  face,  moved  his  lips,  and  at 
last  said,  drawling  upon  one  note: 

"  I  used  to  respect  your  uncle  .  .  .  and  your  fa- 
ther, and  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  their  friendship. 
Now  I  feel  it  an  agreeable  duty,  as  you  see,  to  pre- 
sent my  Christmas  wishes  to  their  honoured  heiress 
...  in  spite  of  my  infirmities  and  the  distance  I 
have  to  come.  .  .  .  And  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you 
in  good  health." 

The  lawyer  Lysevitch,  a  tall,  handsome  fair  man, 
with  a  slight  sprinkling  of  grey  on  his  temples  and 
beard,  was  distinguished  by  exceptionally  elegant 


126      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

manners;  he  walked  with  a  swaying  step,  bowed  as 
it  were  reluctantly,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  as 
he  talked,  and  all  this  with  an  indolent  grace,  like 
a  spoiled  horse  fresh  from  the  stable.  He  was  well 
fed,  extremely  healthy,  and  very  well  off;  on  one 
occasion  he  had  won  forty  thousand  roubles,  but  con- 
cealed the  fact  from  his  friends.  He  was  fond  of 
good  fare,  especially  cheese,  truffles,  and  grated  rad- 
ish with  hemp  oil;  while  in  Paris  he  had  eaten,  so  he 
said,  baked  but  unwashed  guts.  He  spoke  smoothly, 
fluently,  without  hesitation,  and  only  occasionally, 
for  the  sake  of  effect,  permitted  himself  to  hesitate 
and  snap  his  fingers  as  if  picking  up  a  word.  He 
had  long  ceased  to  believe  in  anything  he  had  to  say 
in  the  law  courts,  or  perhaps  he  did  believe  in  it,  but 
attached  no  kind  of  significance  to  it;  it  had  all  so 
long  been  familiar,  stale,  ordinary.  .  .  .  He  be- 
lieved in  nothing  but  what  was  original  and  unusual. 
A  copy-book  moral  in  an  original  form  would  move 
him  to  tears.  Both  his  notebooks  were  filled  with 
extraordinary  expressions  which  he  had  read  in  va- 
rious authors;  and  when  he  needed  to  look  up  any 
expression,  he  would  search  nervously  in  both  books, 
and  usually  failed  to  find  it.  Anna  Akimovna's  fa- 
ther had  in  a  good-humoured  moment  ostentatiously 
appointed  him  legal  adviser  in  matters  concerning  the 
factory,  and  had  assigned  him  a  salary  of  twelve 
thousand  roubles.  The  legal  business  of  the  factory 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  127 

had  been  confined  to  two  or  three  trivial  actions  for 
recovering  debts,  which  Lysevitch  handed  to  his  as- 
sistants. 

Anna  Akimovna  knew  that  he  had  nothing  to  do 
at  the  factory,  but  she  could  not  dismiss  him  —  she 
had  not  the  moral  courage ;  and  besides,  she  was  used 
to  him.  He  used  to  call  himself  her  legal  adviser, 
and  his  salary,  which  he  invariably  sent  for  on  the 
first  of  the  month  punctually,  he  used  to  call  "  stern 
prose."  Anna  Akimovna  knew  that  when,  after  her 
father's  death,  the  timber  of  her  forest  was  sold  for 
railway  sleepers,  Lysevitch  had  made  more  than  fif- 
teen thousand  out  of  the  transaction,  and  had  shared 
it  with  Nazaritch.  When  first  she  found  out  they 
had  cheated  her  she  had  wept  bitterly,  but  after- 
wards she  had  grown  used  to  it. 

Wishing  her  a  happy  Christmas,  and  kissing  both 
her  hands,  he  looked  her  up  and  down,  and  frowned. 

'  You  mustn't,"  he  said  with  genuine  disappoint- 
ment. "  I  have  told  you,  my  dear,  you  mustn't!  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Viktor  Nikolaitch?  " 

"  I  have  told  you  you  mustn't  get  fat.  All  your 
family  have  an  unfortunate  tendency  to  grow  fat. 
You  mustn't,"  he  repeated  in  an  imploring  voice,  and 
kissed  her  hand.  '  You  are  so  handsome !  You 
are  so  splendid !  Here,  your  Excellency,  let  me  in- 
troduce the  one  woman  in  the  world  whom  T  have 
ever  seriously  loved." 


128      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

''  There  is  nothing  surprising  in  that.  To  know 
Anna  Akimovna  at  your  age  and  not  to  be  in  love 
with  her,  that  would  be  impossible." 

"  I  adore  her,"  the  lawyer  continued  with  perfect 
sincerity,  but  with  his  usual  indolent  grace.  "  I  love 
her,  but  not  because  I  am  a  man  and  she  is  a  woman. 
When  I  am  with  her  I  always  feel  as  though  she  be- 
longs to  some  third  sex,  and  I  to  a  fourth,  and  we 
float  away  together  into  the  domain  of  the  subtlest 
shades,  and  there  we  blend  into  the  spectrum.  Le- 
conte  de  Lisle  defines  such  relations  better  than  any 
one.  He  has  a  superb  passage,  a  marvellous  pas- 
sage. .  .  ." 

Lysevitch  rummaged  in  one  notebook,  then  in  the 
other,  and,  not  finding  the  quotation,  subsided. 
They  began  talking  of  the  weather,  of  the  opera,  of 
the  arrival,  expected  shortly,  of  Duse.  Anna  Aki- 
movna remembered  that  the  year  before  Lysevitch 
and,  she  fancied,  Krylin  had  dined  with  her,  and 
now  when  they  were  getting  ready  to  go  away,  she 
began  with  perfect  sincerity  pointing  out  to  them  in 
an  imploring  voice  that  as  they  had  no  more  visits 
to  pay,  they  ought  to  remain  to  dinner  with  her. 
After  some  hesitation  the  visitors  agreed. 

In  addition  to  the  family  dinner,  consisting  of 
cabbage  soup,  sucking  pig,  goose  with  apples,  and 
so  on,  a  so-called  "  French  "  or  "  chef's  "  dinner 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  129 

used  to  be  prepared  in  the  kitchen  on  great  holidays, 
in  case  any  visitor  in  the  upper  story  wanted  a  meal. 
When  they  heard  the  clatter  of  crockery  in  the  dining- 
room,  Lysevitch  began  to  betray  a  noticeable  excite- 
ment; he  rubbed  his  hands,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
screwed  up  his  eyes,  and  described  with  feeling  what 
dinners  her  father  and  uncle  used  to  give  at  one 
time,  and  a  marvellous  matelote  of  turbots  the  cook 
here  could  make:  it  was  not  a  matelote,  but  a  veri- 
table revelation  !  He  was  already  gloating  over  the 
dinner,  already  eating  it  in  imagination  and  enjoying 
it.  When  Anna  Akimovna  took  his  arm  and  led 
him  to  the  dining-room,  he  tossed  off  a  glass  of  vodka 
and  put  a  piece  of  salmon  in  his  mouth;  he  positively 
purred  with  pleasure.  He  munched  loudly,  disgust- 
ingly, emitting  sounds  from  his  nose,  while  his  eyes 
grew  oily  and  rapacious. 

The  hors  d'ceircres  were  superb;  among  other 
things,  there  were  fresh  white  mushrooms  stewed 
in  cream,  and  sauce  provencale  made  of  fried  oys- 
ters and  crayfish,  strongly  flavoured  with  some  bitter 
pickles.  The  dinner,  consisting  of  elaborate  holiday 
dishes,  was  excellent,  and  so  were  the  wines.  Mi- 
shenka  waited  at  table  with  enthusiasm.  When  he 
laid  some  new  dish  on  the  table  and  lifted  the  shin- 
ing cover,  or  poured  out  the  wine,  he  did  it  with 
the  solemnity  of  a  professor  of  black  magic,  and, 


130      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

looking  at  his  face  and  his  movements  suggesting 
the  first  figure  of  a  quadrille,  the  lawyer  thought 
several  times,  "  What  a  fool!  " 

After  the  third  course  Lysevitch  said,  turning  to 
Anna  Akimovna : 

'  The  fin  de  siecle  woman  —  I  mean  when  she  is 
young,  and  of  course  wealthy  —  must  be  independ- 
ent, clever,  elegant,  intellectual,  bold,  and  a  little 
depraved.  Depraved  within  limits,  a  little;  for  ex- 
cess, you  know,  is  wearisome.  You  ought  not  to 
vegetate,  my  dear;  you  ought  not  to  live  like  every 
one  else,  but  to  get  the  full  savour  of  life,  and  a 
slight  flavour  of  depravity  is  the  sauce  of  life. 
Revel  among  flowers  of  intoxicating  fragrance, 
breathe  the  perfume  of  musk,  eat  hashish,  and  best 
of  all,  love,  love,  love.  .  .  .  To  begin  with,  in  your 
place  I  would  set  up  seven  lovers  —  one  for  each  day 
of  the  week;  and  one  I  would  call  Monday,  one 
Tuesday,  the  third  Wednesday,  and  so  on,  so  that 
each  might  know  his  day." 

This  conversation  troubled  Anna  Akimovna;  she 
ate  nothing  and  only  drank  a  glass  of  wine. 

"  Let  me  speak  at  last,'1  she  said.  "  For  myself 
personally,  I  can't  conceive  of  love  \vithout  family 
life.  I  am  lonely,  lonely  as  the  moon  in  the  sky, 
and  a  waning  moon,  too;  and  whatever  you  may  say, 
1  am  convinced,  I  feel  that  this  waning  can  only  be 
restored  by  love  in  its  ordinary  sense.  It  seems  to 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  131 

me  that  such  love  would  define  my  duties,  my  work, 
make  clear  my  conception  of  life.  I  want  from  love 
peace  of  soul,  tranquillity;  I  want  the  very  opposite 
of  musk,  and  spiritualism,  and  fin  dc  siecle  ...  in 
short" — she  grew  embarrassed — "a  husband  and 
children." 

'You  want  to  be  married?  Well,  you  can  do 
that,  too,"  Lysevitch  assented.  "  You  ought  to 
have  all  experiences:  marriage,  and  jealousy,  and 
the  sweetness  of  the  first  infidelity,  and  even  chil- 
dren. .  .  .  But  make  haste  and  live  —  make  haste, 
my  dear:  time  is  passing;  it  won't  wait." 

"  Yes,  I'll  go  and  get  married!  "  she  said,  looking 
angrily  at  his  well-fed,  satisfied  face.  "  I  will  marry 
in  the  simplest,  most  ordinary  way  and  be  radiant 
with  happiness.  And,  would  you  believe  it,  I  will 
marry  some  plain  working  man,  some  mechanic  or 
draughtsman." 

"  There  is  no  harm  in  that,  either.  The  Duchess 
Josiana  loved  Gwinplin,  and  that  was  permissible 
for  her  because  she  was  a  grand  duchess.  Every- 
thing is  permissible  for  you,  too,  because  you  are 
an  exceptional  woman:  if,  my  dear,  you  want  to 
love  a  negro  or  an  Arab,  don't  scruple;  send  for  a 
negro.  Don't  deny  yourself  anything.  You  ought 
to  be  as  bold  as  your  desires;  don't  fall  short  of 
them." 

"Can  it  be  so  hard  to  understand  me?"  Anna 


132      The  Party  and  Other  Stones 

Akimovna  asked  with  amazement,  and  her  eyes  were 
bright  with  tears.  "  Understand,  I  have  an  immense 
business  on  my  hands  —  two  thousand  workmen,  for 
whom  I  must  answer  before  God.  The  men  who 
work  for  me  grow  blind  and  deaf.  I  am  afraid  to 
go  on  like  this;  I  am  afraid!  I  am  wretched,  and 
you  have  the  cruelty  to  talk  to  me  of  negroes  and 
.  .  .  and  you  smile !  "  Anna  Akimovna  brought 
her  fist  down  on  the  table.  "  To  go  on  living  the 
life  I  am  living  now,  or  to  marry  some  one  as  idle 
and  incompetent  as  myself,  would  be  a  crime.  I 
can't  go  on  living  like  this,"  she  said  hotly,  "  I  can- 
not! " 

"How  handsome  she  is!  "  said  Lysevitch,  fasci- 
nated by  her.  "My  God,  how  handsome  she  is! 
But  why  are  you  angry,  my  dear?  Perhaps  I  am 
wrong;  but  surely  you  don't  imagine  that  if,  for  the 
sake  of  ideas  for  which  I  have  the  deepest  respect, 
you  renounce  the  joys  of  life  and  lead  a  dreary  exist- 
ence, your  workmen  will  be  any  the  better  for  it? 
Not  a  scrap!  No,  frivolity,  frivolity!  "  he  said  de- 
cisively. "  It's  essential  for  you;  it's  your  duty  to 
be  frivolous  and  depraved!  Ponder  that,  my  dear, 
ponder  it." 

Anna  Akimovna  was  glad  she  had  spoken  out, 
and  her  spirits  rose.  She  was  pleased  she  had 
spoken  so  well,  and  that  her  ideas  were  so  fine  and 
just,  and  she  was  already  convinced  that  if  Pimenov, 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  133 

for  instance,  loved  her,  she  would  marry  him  with 
pleasure. 

Mishenka  began  to  pour  out  champagne. 

"  You  make  me  angry,  Viktor  Nikolaitch,"  she 
said,  clinking  glasses  with  the  lawyer.  "  It  seems 
to  me  you  give  advice  and  know  nothing  of  life  your- 
self. According  to  you,  if  a  man  be  a  mechanic  or 
a  draughtsman,  he  is  bound  to  be  a  peasant  and  an 
ignoramus !  But  they  are  the  cleverest  people ! 
Extraordinary  people !  " 

"  Your  uncle  and  father  ...  I  knew  them  and 
respected  them  .  .  ."  Krylin  said,  pausing  for  em- 
phasis (he  had  been  sitting  upright  as  a  post,  and 
had  been  eating  steadily  the  whole  time) ,  "  were 
people  of  considerable  intelligence  and  ...  of  lofty 
spiritual  qualities." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,  we  know  all  about  their  quali- 
ties," the  lawyer  muttered,  and  asked  permission  to 
smoke. 

When  dinner  was  over  Krylin  was  led  away  for 
a  nap.  Lysevitch  finished  his  cigar,  and,  stagger- 
ing from  repletion,  followed  Anna  Akimovna  into 
her  study.  Cosy  corners  with  photographs  and 
fans  on  the  walls,  and  the  inevitable  pink  or  pale 
blue  lanterns  in  the  middle  of  the  ceiling,  he  did 
not  like,  as  the  expression  of  an  insipid  and  unorig- 
inal character;  besides,  the  memory  of  certain  of 
his  love  affairs  of  which  he  was  now  ashamed  was 


134     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

associated  with  such  lanterns.  Anna  Akimovna's 
study  with  its  bare  walls  and  tasteless  furniture 
pleased  him  exceedingly.  It  was  snug  and  comfort- 
able for  him  to  sit  on  a  Turkish  divan  and  look  at 
Anna  Akimovna,  who  usually  sat  on  the  rug  before 
the  fire,  clasping  her  knees  and  looking  into  the  fire 
and  thinking  of  something;  and  at  such  moments  it 
seemed  to  him  that  her  peasant  Old  Believer  blood 
was  stirring  within  her. 

Every  time  after  dinner  when  coffee  and  liqueurs 
were  handed,  he  grew  livelier  and  began  telling  her 
various  bits  of  literary  gossip.  He  spoke  with  elo- 
quence and  inspiration,  and  was  carried  away  by  his 
own  stories;  and  she  listened  to  him  and  thought 
every  time  that  for  such  enjoyment  it  was  worth 
paying  not  only  twelve  thousand,  but  three  times 
that  sum,  and  forgave  him  everything  she  disliked 
in  him.  He  sometimes  told  her  the  story  of  some 
tale  or  novel  he  had  been  reading,  and  then  two  or 
three  hours  passed  unnoticed  like  a  minute.  Now 
he  began  rather  dolefully  in  a  failing  voice  with  his 
eyes  shut. 

"  It's  ages,  my  dear,  since  I  have  read  anything," 
he  said  when  she  asked  him  to  tell  her  something. 
"  Though  I  do  sometimes  read  Jules  Verne." 

"  I  was  expecting  you  to  tell  me  something  new." 

"H'm!  .  .  .  new,"  Lysevitch  muttered  sleepily, 
and  he  settled  himself  further  back  in  the  corner 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  13^ 

of  the  sofa.  "  None  of  the  new  literature,  my  dear, 
is  any  use  for  you  or  me.  Of  course,  it  is  bound 
to  be  such  as  it  is,  and  to  refuse  to  recognize  it  is 
to  refuse  to  recognize  —  would  mean  refusing  to 
recognize  the  natural  order  of  things,  and  I  do 
recognize  it,  but  .  .  ."  Lysevitch  seemed  to  have 
fallen  asleep.  But  a  minute  later  his  voice  was 
heard  again: 

"  All  the  new  literature  moans  and  howls  like 
the  autumn  wind  in  the  chimney.  '  Ah,  unhappy 
wretch!  Ah,  your  life  may  be  likened  to  a  prison! 
Ah,  how  damp  and  dark  it  is  in  your  prison !  Ah, 
you  will  certainly  come  to  ruin,  and  there  is  no  chance 
of  escape  for  you !  '  That's  very  fine,  but  I  should 
prefer  a  literature  that  would  tell  us  how  to  escape 
from  prison.  Of  all  contemporary  writers,  how- 
ever, I  prefer  Maupassant."  Lysevitch  opened  his 
eyes.  "  A  fine  writer,  a  perfect  writer !  "  Lysevitch 
shifted  in  his  seat.  "A  wonderful  artist!  A  ter- 
rible, prodigious,  supernatural  artist!"  Lysevitch 
got  up  from  the  sofa  and  raised  his  right  arm. 
"  Maupassant!  "  he  said  rapturously.  "  My  dear, 
read  Maupassant!  one  page  of  his  gives  you  more 
than  all  the  riches  of  the  earth!  Every  line  is  a 
new  horizon.  The  softest,  tenderest  impulses  of 
the  soul  alternate  with  violent  tempestuous  sensa- 
tions; your  soul,  as  though  under  the  weight  of  forty 
thousand  atmospheres,  is  transformed  into  the  most 


136     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

insignificant  little  bit  of  some  great  thing  of  an  un- 
defined rosy  hue  which  I  fancy,  if  one  could  put  it 
on  one's  tongue,  would  yield  a  pungent,  voluptuous 
taste.  What  a  fury  of  transitions,  of  motives,  of 
melodies!  You  rest  peacefully  on  the  lilies  and  the 
roses,  and  suddenly  a  thought  —  a  terrible,  splen- 
did, irresistible  thought  —  swoops  down  upon  you 
like  a  locomotive,  and  bathes  you  in  hot  steam  and 
deafens  you  with  its  whistle.  Read  Maupassant, 
dear  girl;  I  insist  on  it." 

Lysevitch  waved  his  arms  and  paced  from  cor- 
ner to  corner  in  violent  excitement. 

'  Yes,  it  is  inconceivable,"  he  pronounced,  as 
though  in  despair;  "his  last  thing  overwhelmed 
me,  intoxicated  me!  But  I  am  afraid  you  will  not 
care  for  it.  To  be  carried  away  by  it  you  must 
savour  it,  slowly  suck  the  juice  from  each  line,  drink 
it  in.  .  .  .  You  must  drink  it  in !  .  .  ." 

After  a  long  introduction,  containing  many  words 
such  as  demonic  sensuality,  a  network  of  the  most 
delicate  nerves,  simoom,  crystal,  and  so  on,  he  be- 
gan at  last  telling  the  story  of  the  novel.  He  did 
not  tell  the  story  so  whimsically,  but  told  it  in  minute 
detail,  quoting  from  memory  whole  descriptions  and 
conversations;  the  characters  of  the  novel  fascinated 
him,  and  to  describe  them  he  threw  himself  into  atti- 
tudes, changed  the  expression  of  his  face  and  voice 
like  a  real  actor.  He  laughed  with  delight  at  one 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  137 

moment  in  a  deep  bass,  and  at  another,  on  a  high 
shrill  note,  clasped  his  hands  and  clutched  at  his 
head  with  an  expression  which  suggested  that  it  was 
just  going  to  burst.  Anna  Akimovna  listened  en- 
thralled, though  she  had  already  read  the  novel, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  ever  so  much  finer  and  more 
subtle  in  the  lawyer's  version  than  in  the  book  it- 
self. He  drew  her  attention  to  various  subtleties, 
and  emphasized  the  felicitous  expressions  and  the 
profound  thoughts,  but  she  saw  in  it,  only  life,  life, 
life  and  herself,  as  though  she  had  been  a  character 
in  the  novel.  Her  spirits  rose,  and  she,  too,  laugh- 
ing and  clasping  her  hands,  thought  that  she  could 
not  go  on  living  such  a  life,  that  there  was  no  need 
to  have  a  wretched  life  when  one  might  have  a  splen- 
did one.  She  remembered  her  words  and  thoughts 
at  dinner,  and  was  proud  of  them;  and  when  Pi- 
menov  suddenly  rose  up  in  her  imagination,  she  felt 
happy  and  longed  for  him  to  love  her. 

When  he  had  finished  the  story,  Lysevitch  sat 
down  on  the  sofa,  exhausted. 

"  How  splendid  you  are!  How  handsome!  "  he 
began,  a  little  while  afterwards  in  a  faint  voice  as  if 
he  were  ill.  "  I  am  happy  near  you,  dear  girl,  but 
why  am  I  forty-two  instead  of  thirty?  Your  tastes 
and  mine  do  not  coincide:  you  ought  to  be  depraved, 
and  I  have  long  passed  that  phase,  and  want  a  love 
as  delicate  and  immaterial  as  a  ray  of  sunshine  — 


138     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

that  is,  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  woman  of  your 
age,  I  am  of  no  earthly  use." 

In  his  own  words,  he  loved  Turgenev,  the  singer 
of  virginal  love  and  purity,  of  youth,  and  of  the 
melancholy  Russian  landscape;  but  he  loved  vir- 
ginal love,  not  from  knowledge  but  from  hearsay, 
as  something  abstract,  existing  outside  real  life. 
Now  he  assured  himself  that  he  loved  Anna  Aki- 
movna  platonically,  ideally,  though  he  did  not  know 
what  those  words  meant.  But  he  felt  comfortable, 
snug,  warm.  Anna  Akimovna  seemed  to  him  en- 
chanting, original,  and  he  imagined  that  the  pleasant 
sensation  that  was  aroused  in  him  by  these  surround- 
ings was  the  very  thing  that  was  called  platonic  love. 

He  laid  his  cheek  on  her  hand  and  said  in  the  tone 
commonly  used  in  coaxing  little  children: 

"  My  precious,  why  have  you  punished  me?  " 

"How?     When?" 

"  I  have  had  no  Christmas  present  from  you." 

Anna  Akimovna  had  never  heard  before  of  their 
sending  a  Christmas  box  to  the  lawyer,  and  now 
she  was  at  a  loss  how  much  to  give  him.  But  she 
must  give  him  something,  for  he  was  expecting  it, 
though  he  looked  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  love. 

"  I  suppose  Nazaritch  forgot  it,"  she  said,  "  but 
it  is  not  too  late  to  set  it  right." 

She  suddenly  remembered  the  fifteen  hundred  she 
had  received  the  day  before,  which  was  now  lying 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  139 

in  the  toilet  drawer  in  her  bedroom.  And  when  she 
brought  that  ungrateful  money  and  gave  it  to  the 
lawyer,  and  he  put  it  in  his  coat  pocket  with  indolent 
grace,  the  whole  incident  passed  off  charmingly  and 
naturally.  The  sudden  reminder  of  a  Christmas  box 
and  this  fifteen  hundred  was  not  unbecoming  in 
Lysevitch. 

"  Merci,"  he  said,  and  kissed  her  finger. 

Krylin  came  in  with  blissful,  sleepy  face,  but  with- 
out his  decorations. 

Lysevitch  and  he  stayed  a  little  longer  and  drank 
a  glass  of  tea  each,  and  began  to  get  ready  to  go. 
Anna  Akimovna  was  a  little  embarrassed.  .  .  .  She 
had  utterly  forgotten  in  what  department  Krylin 
served,  and  whether  she  had  to  give  him  money  or 
not;  and  if  she  had  to,  whether  to  give  it  now  or  send 
it  afterwards  in  an  envelope. 

"  Where  does  he  serve?  "  she  whispered  to  Lyse- 
vitch. 

"  Goodness  knows,"  muttered  Lysevitch,  yawn- 
ing. 

She  reflected  that  if  Krylin  used  to  visit  her  fa- 
ther and  her  uncle  and  respected  them,  it  was  prob- 
ably not  for  nothing:  apparently  he  had  been  chari- 
table at  their  expense,  serving  in  some  charitable 
institution.  As  she  said  good-bye  she  slipped  three 
hundred  roubles  into  his  hand;  he  seemed  taken 
aback,  and  looked  at  her  for  a  minute  in  silence  with 


140     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

his  pewtery  eyes,  but  then  seemed  to  understand  and 
said : 

'  The  receipt,  honoured  Anna  Akimovna,  you  can 
only  receive  on  the  New  Year." 

Lysevitch  had  become  utterly  limp  and  heavy, 
and  he  staggered  when  Mishenka  put  on  his  over- 
coat. 

As  he  went  downstairs  he  looked  like  a  man  in 
the  last  stage  of  exhaustion,  and  it  was  evident  that 
he  would  drop  asleep  as  soon  as  he  got  into  his 
sledge. 

'  Your  Excellency,"  he  said  languidly  to  Krylin, 
stopping  in  the  middle  of  the  staircase,  "  has  it 
ever  happened  to  you  to  experience  a  feeling  as 
though  some  unseen  force  were  drawing  you  out 
longer  and  longer?  You  are  drawn  out  and  turn 
into  the  finest  wire.  Subjectively  this  finds  expres- 
sion in  a  curious  voluptuous  feeling  which  is  impos- 
sibe  to  compare  with  anything." 

Anna  Akimovna,  standing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
saw  each  of  them  give  Mishenka  a  note. 

"  Good-bye!  Come  again!  "  she  called  to  them, 
and  ran  into  her  bedroom. 

She  quickly  threw  off  her  dress,  that  she  was  weary 
of  already,  put  on  a  dressing-gown,  and  ran  down- 
stairs; and  as  she  ran  downstairs  she  laughed  and 
thumped  with  her  feet  like  a  school-boy;  she  had  a 
great  desire  for  mischief, 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  141 

IV 

EVENING 

Auntie,  in  a  loose  print  blouse,  Varvarushka 
and  two  old  women,  were  sitting  in  the  dining- 
room  having  supper.  A  big  piece  of  salt  meat,  a 
ham,  and  various  savouries,  were  lying  on  the  table 
before  them,  and  clouds  of  steam  were  rising  from 
the  meat,  which  looked  particularly  fat  and  appe- 
tizing. Wine  was  not  served  on  the  lower  story, 
but  they  made  up  for  it  with  a  great  number  of 
spirits  and  home-made  liqueurs.  Agafyushka,  the 
fat,  white-skinned,  well-fed  cook,  was  standing  with 
her  arms  crossed  in  the  doorway  and  talking  to  the 
old  women,  and  the  dishes  were  being  handed  by 
the  downstairs  Masha,  a  dark  girl  with  a  crimson 
ribbon  in  her  hair.  The  old  women  had  had  enough 
to  eat  before  the  morning  was  over,  and  an  hour 
before  supper  had  had  tea  and  buns,  and  so  they 
wrere  now  eating  with  effort  —  as  it  were,  from  a 
sense  of  duty. 

"Oh,  my  girl!"  sighed  Auntie,  as  Anna  Aki- 
movna  ran  into  the  dining-room  and  sat  down  be- 
side her.  "  You've  frightened  me  to  death !  " 

Every  one  in  the  house  was  pleased  when  Anna 
Akimovna  was  in  good  spirits  and  played  pranks; 
this  always  reminded  them  that  the  old  men  were 


142      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

dead  and  that  the  old  women  had  no  authority  in 
the  house,  and  any  one  could  do  as  he  liked  without 
any  fear  of  being  sharply  called  to  account  for  it. 
Only  the  two  old  women  glanced  askance  at  Anna 
Akimovna  with  amazement :  she  was  humming,  and 
it  was  a  sin  to  sing  at  table. 

"  Our  mistress,  our  beauty,  our  picture,"  Agaf- 
yushka  began  chanting  with  sugary  sweetness. 
"  Our  precious  jewel!  The  people,  the  people  that 
have  come  to-day  to  look  at  our  queen.  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  us!  Generals,  and  officers  and  gentle- 
men. ...  I  kept  looking  out  of  window  and  count- 
ing and  counting  till  I  gave  it  up." 

"  I'd  as  soon  they  did  not  come  at  all,"  said 
Auntie;  she  looked  sadly  at  her  niece  and  added: 
"  They  only  waste  the  time  for  my  poor  orphan 

girl." 

Anna  Akimovna  felt  hungry,  as  she  had  eaten 
nothing  since  the  morning.  They  poured  her  out 
some  very  bitter  liqueur;  she  drank  it  off,  and  tasted 
the  salt  meat  with  mustard,  and  thought  it  extraor- 
dinarily nice.  Then  the  downstairs  Masha  brought 
in  the  turkey,  the  pickled  apples  and  the  gooseberries. 
And  that  pleased  her,  too.  There  was  only  one 
thing  that  was  disagreeable :  there  was  a  draught  of 
hot  air  from  the  tiled  stove;  it  was  stiflingly  close 
and  every  one's  cheeks  were  burning.  After  sup- 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  143 

per  the  cloth  was  taken  off  and  plates  of  peppermint 
biscuits,  walnuts,  and  raisins  were  brought  in. 

"  You  sit  down,  too  ...  no  need  to  stand 
there !  "  said  Auntie  to  the  cook. 

Agafyushka  sighed  and  sat  down  to  the  table; 
Masha  set  a  wineglass  of  liqueur  before  her,  too, 
and  Anna  Akimovna  began  to  feel  as  though  Agaf- 
yushka's  white  neck  were  giving  out  heat  like  the 
stove.  They  were  all  talking  of  how  difficult  it  was 
nowadays  to  get  married,  and  saying  that  in  old 
days,  if  men  did  not  court  beauty,  they  paid  atten- 
tion to  money,  but  now  there  was  no  making  out 
what  they  wanted;  and  while  hunchbacks  and  crip- 
ples used  to  be  left  old  maids,  nowadays  men  would 
not  have  even  the  beautiful  and  wealthy.  Auntie 
began  to  set  this  down  to  immorality,  and  said  that 
people  had  no  fear  of  God,  but  she  suddenly  re- 
membered that  Ivan  Ivanitch,  her  brother,  and  Var- 
varushka  —  both  people  of  holy  life  —  had  feared 
God,  but  all  the  same  had  had  children  on  the  sly, 
and  had  sent  them  to  the  Foundling  Asylum.  She 
pulled  herself  up  and  changed  the  conversation,  tell- 
ing them  about  a  suitor  she  had  once  had,  a  factory 
hand,  and  how  she  had  loved  him,  but  her  brothers 
had  forced  her  to  marry  a  widower,  an  ikon-painter, 
who,  thank  God,  had  died  two  years  after.  The 
downstairs  Masha  sat  down  to  the  table,  too,  and 


144     The  Party  and  Other  Stones 

told  them  with  a  mysterious  air  that  for  the  last  week 
some  unknown  man  with  a  black  moustache,  in  a 
great-coat  with  an  astrachan  collar,  had  made  his 
appearance  every  morning  in  the  yard,  had  stared 
at  the  windows  of  the  big  house,  and  had  gone  on 
further  —  to  the  buildings;  the  man  was  all  right, 
nice-looking.  .  .  . 

All  this  conversation  made  Anna  Akimovna  sud- 
denly long  to  be  married  —  long  intensely,  painfully; 
she  felt  as  though  she  would  give  half  her  life  and 
all  her  fortune  only  to  know  that  upstairs  there  was 
a  man  who  was  closer  to  her  than  any  one  in  the 
world,  that  he  loved  her  warmly  and  was  missing 
her;  and  the  thought  of  such  closeness,  ecstatic  and 
inexpressible  in  words,  troubled  her  soul.  And  the 
instinct  of  youth  and  health  flattered  her  with  lying 
assurances  that  the  real  poetry  of  life  was  not  over 
but  still  to  come,  and  she  believed  it,  and  leaning 
back  in  her  chair  (her  hair  fell  down  as  she  did  so), 
she  began  laughing,  and,  looking  at  her,  the  others 
laughed,  too.  And  it  was  a  long  time  before  this 
causeless  laughter  died  down  in  the  dining-room. 

She  was  informed  that  the  Stinging  Beetle  had 
come.  This  was  a  pilgrim  woman  called  Pasha  or 
Spiridonovna  —  a  thin  little  woman  of  fifty,  in  a 
black  -dress  with  a  white  kerchief,  with  keen  eyes, 
sharp  nose,  and  a  sharp  chin;  she  had  sly,  viperish 
eyes  and  she  looked  as  though  she  could  see  right 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  145 

through  every  one.  Her  lips  were  shaped  like  a 
heart.  Her  viperishness  and  hostility  to  every  one 
had  earned  her  the  nickname  of  the  Stinging  Beetle. 

Going  into  the  dining-room  without  looking  at 
any  one,  she  made  for  the  ikons  and  chanted  in  a 
high  voice  "  Thy  Holy  Birth,"  then  she  sang  "  The 
Virgin  today  gives  birth  to  the  Son,"  then  "  Christ 
is  born,"  then  she  turned  round  and  bent  a  piercing 
gaze  upon  all  of  them. 

"  A  happy  Christmas,"  she  said,  and  she  kissed 
Anna  Akimovna  on  the  shoulder.  "  It's  all  I  could 
do,  all  I  could  do  to  get  to  you,  my  kind  friends." 
She  kissed  Auntie  on  the  shoulder.  "  I  should  have 
come  to  you  this  morning,  but  I  went  in  to  some  good 
people  to  rest  on  the  way.  '  Stay,  Spiridonovna, 
stay,'  they  said,  and  I  did  not  notice  that  evening 
was  coming  on." 

As  she  did  not  eat  meat,  they  gave  her  salmon 
and  caviare.  She  ate  looking  from  under  her  eye- 
lids at  the  company,  and  drank  three  glasses  of 
vodka.  When  she  had  finished  she  said  a  prayer 
and  bowed  down  to  Anna  Akimovna's  feet. 

They  began  to  play  a  game  of  "  kings,"  as  they 
had  done  the  year  before,  and  the  year  before 
that,  and  all  the  servants  in  both  stories  crowded 
in  at  the  doors  to  watch  the  game.  Anna  Akimovna 
fancied  she  caught  a  glimpse  once  or  twice  of  Mi- 
shenka,  with  a  patronizing  smile  on  his  face,  among 


146      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

the  crowd  of  peasant  men  and  women.  The  first 
to  be  king  was  Stinging  Beetle,  and  Anna  Akimovna 
as  the  soldier  paid  her  tribute;  and  then  Auntie  was 
king  and  Anna  Akimovna  was  peasant,  which  ex- 
cited general  delight,  and  Agafyushka  was  prince, 
and  was  quite  abashed  with  pleasure.  Another 
game  was  got  up  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  — 
played  by  the  two  Mashas,  Varvarushka,  and  the 
sewing-maid  Marfa  Ptrovna,  who  was  waked  on 
purpose  to  play  "  kings,"  and  whose  face  looked 
cross  and  sleepy. 

While  they  were  playing  they  talked  of  men, 
and  of  how  difficult  it  was  to  get  a  good  husband 
nowadays,  and  which  state  was  to  be  preferred  — 
that  of  an  old  maid  or  a  widow. 

"  You  are  a  handsome,  healthy,  sturdy  lass,"  said 
Stinging  Beetle  to  Anna  Akimovna.  "  But  I  can't 
make  out  for  whose  sake  you  are  holding  back." 

"  What's  to  be  done  if  nobody  will  have  me?  " 

"  Or  maybe  you  have  taken  a  vow  to  remain 
a  maid?"  Stinging  Beetle  went  on,  as  though  she 
did  not  hear.  "  Well,  that's  a  good  deed.  .  .  .  Re- 
main one,"  she  repeated,  looking  intently  and  ma- 
liciously at  her  cards.  "All  right,  my  dear,  remain 
one.  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  only  maids,  these  saintly  maids, 
are  not  all  alike."  She  heaved  a  sigh  and  played  the 
king.  "Oh,  no,  my  girl,  they  are  not  all  alike! 
Some  really  watch  over  themselves  like  nuns,  and 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  147 

butter  would  not  melt  in  their  mouths;  and  if  such 
a  one  does  sin  in  an  hour  of  weakness,  she  is  worried 
to  death,  poor  thing!  so  it  would  be  a  sin  to  condemn 
her.  While  others  will  go  dressed  in  black  and  sew 
their  shroud,  and  yet  love  rich  old  men  on  the  sly. 
Yes,  y-es,  my  canary  birds,  some  hussies  will  bewitch 
an  old  man  and  rule  over  him,  my  doves,  rule  over 
him  and  turn  his  head;  and  when  they've  saved  up 
money  and  lottery  tickets  enough,  they  will  bewitch 
him  to  his  death." 

Varvarushka's  only  response  to  these  hints  was 
to  heave  a  sigh  and  look  towards  the  ikons.  There 
was  an  expression  of  Christian  meekness  on  her 
countenance. 

"  I  know  a  maid  like  that,  my  bitterest  enemy," 
Stinging  Beetle  went  on,  looking  round  at  every  one 
in  triumph;  "  she  is  always  sighing,  too,  and  look- 
ing at  the  ikons,  the  she-devil.  When  she  used  to 
rule  in  a  certain  old  man's  house,  if  one  went  to 
her  she  would  give  one  a  crust,  and  bid  one  bow 
down  to  the  ikons  while  she  would  sing:  '  In  con- 
ception Thou  dost  abide  a  Virgin  .  .  . !  '  On  holi- 
days she  will  give  one  a  bite,  and  on  working  days 
she  will  reproach  one  for  it.  But  nowadays  I  will 
make  merry  over  her!  I  will  make  as  merry  as  I 
please,  my  jewel." 

Varvarushka  glanced  at  the  ikons  again  and 
crossed  herself. 


148     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  But  no  one  will  have  me,  Spiridonovna,"  said 
Anna  Akimovna  to  change  the  conversation. 
"What's  to  be  done?" 

"  It's  your  own  fault.  You  keep  waiting  for 
highly  educated  gentlemen,  but  you  ought  to  marry 
one  of  your  own  sort,  a  merchant." 

"  We  don't  want  a  merchant,"  said  Auntie,  all 
in  a  flutter.  "Queen  of  Heaven,  preserve  us!  A 
gentleman  will  spend  your  money,  but  then  he  will 
be  kind  to  you,  you  poor  little  fool.  But  a  merchant 
will  be  so  strict  that  you  won't  feel  at  home  in  your 
own  house.  You'll  be  wanting  to  fondle  him  and 
he  will  be  counting  his  money,  and  when  you  sit  down 
to  meals  with  him,  he'll  grudge  you  every  mouthful, 
though  it's  your  own,  the  lout!  .  .  .  Marry  a  gen- 
tleman." 

They  all  talked  at  once,  loudly  interrupting  one 
another,  and  Auntie  tapped  on  the  table  with  the 
nutcrackers  and  said,  flushed  and  angry: 

"  We  won't  have  a  merchant;  we  won't  have  one ! 
If  you  choose  a  merchant  I  shall  go  to  an  almshouse." 

"Sh  .  .  .  Sh!  .  .  .  Hush!  "  cried  Stinging  Bee- 
tie ;  when  all  were  silent  she  screwed  up  one  eye  and 
said:  "Do  you  know  what,  Annushka,  my  bir- 
die .  .  .?  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  get  mar- 
ried really  like  every  one  else.  You're  rich  and 
free,  you  are  your  own  mistress;  but  yet,  my  child, 
it  doesn't  seem  the  right  thing  for  you  to  be  an  old 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  149 

maid.  I'll  find  you,  you  know,  some  trumpery  and 
simple-witted  man.  You'll  marry  him  for  appear- 
ances and  then  have  your  fling,  bonny  lass!  You 
can  hand  him  five  thousand  or  ten  maybe,  and  pack 
him  off  where  he  came  from,  and  you  will  be  mis- 
tress in  your  own  house  —  you  can  love  whom  you 
like  and  no  one  can  say  anything  to  you.  And  then 
you  can  love  your  highly  educated  gentleman. 
You'll  have  a  jolly  time  !  "  Stinging  Beetle  snapped 
her  fingers  and  gave  a  whistle. 

"  It's  sinful,"  said  Auntie. 

"  Oh,  sinful,"  laughed  Stinging  Beetle.  "  She  is 
educated,  she  understands.  To  cut  some  one's 
throat  or  bewitch  an  old  man  —  that's  a  sin,  that's 
true;  but  to  love  some  charming  young  friend  is 
not  a  sin  at  all.  And  what  is  there  in  it,  really? 
There's  no  sin  in  it  at  all!  The  old  pilgrim  women 
have  invented  all  that  to  make  fools  of  simple  folk. 
I,  too,  say  everywhere  it's  a  sin;  I  don't  know  my- 
self why  it's  a  sin."  Stinging  Beetle  emptied  her 
glass  and  cleared  her  throat  "  Have  your  fling, 
bonny  lass,"  this  time  evidently  addressing  herself. 
"  For  thirty  years,  wenches,  I  have  thought  of  noth- 
ing but  sins  and  been  afraid,  but  now  I  see  I  have 
wasted  my  time,  I've  let  it  slip  by  like  a  ninny !  Ah, 
I  have  been  a  fool,  a  fool!"  She  sighed.  "A 
woman's  time  is  short  and  every  day  is  precious. 
You  are  handsome,  Annushka,  and  very  rich;  but  as 


150      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

soon  as  thirty-five  or  forty  strikes  for  you  your  time 
is  up.  Don't  listen  to  any  one,  my  girl;  live,  have 
your  fling  till  you  are  forty,  and  then  you  will  have 
time  to  pray  forgiveness  —  there  will  be  plenty  of 
time  to  bow  down  and  to  sew  your  shroud.  A  can- 
dle to  God  and  a  poker  to  the  devil !  You  can  do 
both  at  once  !  Well,  how  is  it  to  be  ?  Will  you 
make  some  little  man  happy?  " 

"  I  will,"  laughed  Anna  Akimovna.  "  I  don't 
care  now;  I  tvould  marry  a  working  man." 

"Well,  that  would  do  all  right!  Oh,  what  a 
fine  fellow  you  would  choose  then !  "  Stinging 
Beetle  screwed  up  her  eyes  and  shook  her  head. 
"O  —  o  — oh!" 

"  I  teli  her  myself,"  said  Auntie,  "  it's  no  good 
waiting  for  a  gentleman,  so  she  had  better  marry, 
riot  a  gentleman,  but  some  one  humbler;  anyway 
we  should  have  a  man  in  the  house  to  look  after 
things.  And  there  are  lots  of  good  men.  She 
might  have  some  one  out  of  the  factory.  They 
are  all  sober,  steady  men.  .  .  ." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  Stinging  Beetle  agreed. 
u  They  are  capital  fellows.  If  you  like,  Aunt,  I 
will  make  a  match  for  her  with  Vassily  Lebedin- 
sky?" 

"  Oh,  Vasya's  legs  are  so  long,"  said  Auntie  seri- 
ously. "  He  is  so  lanky.  He  has  no  looks." 

There  was  laughter  in  the  crowd  by  the  door. 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  151 

'  Well,  Pimenov?  Would  you  like  to  marry  Pi- 
menov?  "  Stinging  Beetle  asked  Anna  Akimovna. 

1  V7ery  good.  Make  a  match  for  me  with  Pi- 
menov." 

"Really?" 

'  Yes,  do !  "  Anna  Akimovna  said  resolutely,  and 
she  struck  her  fist  on  the  table.  "  On  my  honour, 
I  will  marry  him." 

"  Really?" 

Anna  Akimovna  suddenly  felt  ashamed  that  her 
cheeks  were  burning  and  that  every  one  was  looking 
at  her;  she  flung  the  cards  together  on  the  table  and 
ran  out  of  the  room.  As  she  ran  up  the  stairs  and, 
reaching  the  upper  story,  sat  down  to  the  piano 
in  the  drawing-room,  a  murmur  of  sound  reached 
her  from  below  like  the  roar  of  the  sea ;  most  likely 
they  were  talking  of  her  and  of  Pimenov,  and  per- 
haps Stinging  Beetle  was  taking  advantage  of  her 
absence  to  insult  Varvarushka  and  was  putting  no 
check  on  her  language. 

The  lamp  in  the  big  room  was  the  only  light 
burning  in  the  upper  story,  and  it  sent  a  glimmer 
through  the  door  into  the  dark  drawing-room.  It 
was  between  nine  and  ten,  not  later.  Anna  Aki- 
movna played  a  waltz,  then  another,  then  a  third; 
she  went  on  playing  without  stopping.  She  looked 
into  the  dark  corner  beyond  the  piano,  smiled,  and 
inwardly  called  to  it,  and  the  idea  occurred  to  her 


152      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

that  she  might  drive  off  to  the  town  to  see  some  one, 
Lysevitch  for  instance,  and  tell  him  what  was  pass- 
ing in  her  heart.  She  wanted  to  talk  without  ceas- 
ing, to  laugh,  to  play  the  fool,  but  the  dark  corner 
was  sullenly  silent,  and  all  round  in  all  the  rooms 
of  the  upper  story  it  was  still  and  desolate. 

She  was  fond  of  sentimental  songs,  but  she  had 
a  harsh,  untrained  voice,  and  so  she  only  played 
the  accompaniment  and  sang  hardly  audibly,  just 
above  her  breath.  She  sang  in  a  whisper  one  song 
after  another,  for  the  most  part  about  love,  separa- 
tion, and  frustrated  hopes,  and  she  imagined  how 
she  would  hold  out  her  hands  to  him  and  say  with 
entreaty,  with  tears,  "  Pimenov,  take  this  burden 
from  me!  "  And  then,  just  as  though  her  sins  had 
been  forgiven,  there  would  be  joy  and  comfort  in 
her  soul,  and  perhaps  a  free,  happy  life  would  be- 
gin. In  an  anguish  of  anticipation  she  leant  over  the 
keys,  with  a  passionate  longing  for  the  change  in  her 
life  to  come  at  once  without  delay,  and  was  terrified 
at  the  thought  that  her  old  life  would  go  on  for  some 
time  longer.  Then  she  played  again  and  sang 
hardly  above  her  breajth,  and  all  was  stillness  about 
her.  There  was  no  noise  coming  from  downstairs 
now,  they  must  have  gone  to  bed.  It  had  struck 
ten  some  time  before.  A  long,  solitary,  wearisome 
night  was  approaching. 

Anna  Akimovna  walked  through  all  the  rooms, 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  153 

lay  down  for  a  while  on  the  sofa,  and  read  in  her 
study  the  letters  that  had  come  that  evening;  there 
were  twelve  letters  of  Christmas  greetings  and  three 
anonymous  letters.  In  one  of  them  some  workman 
complained  in  a  horrible,  almost  illegible  handwrit- 
ing that  Lenten  oil  sold  in  the  factory  shop  was  ran- 
cid and  smelt  of  paraffin;  in  another,  some  one  re- 
spectfully informed  her  that  over  a  purchase  of  iron 
Nazaritch  had  lately  taken  a  bribe  of  a  thousand 
roubles  from  some  one;  in  a  third  she  was  abused 
for  her  inhumanity. 

The  excitement  of  Christmas  was  passing  off,  and 
to  keep  it  up  Anna  Akimovna  sat  down  at  the  piano 
again  and  softly  played  one  of  the  new  waltzes,  then 
she  remembered  how  cleverly  and  creditably  she  had 
spoken  at  dinner  today.  She  looked  round  at  the 
dark  windows,  at  the  walls  with  the  pictures,  at  the 
faint  light  that  came  from  the  big  room,  and  all  at 
once  she  began  suddenly  crying,  and  she  felt  vexed 
that  she  was  so  lonely,  and  that  she  had  no  one  to 
talk  to  and  consult.  To  cheer  herself  she  tried  to 
picture  Pimenov  in  her  imagination,  but  it  was  un- 
successful. 

It  struck  twelve.  Mishenka,  no  longer  wearing 
his  swallowtail  but  in  his  reefer  jacket,  came  in, 
and  without  speaking  lighted  two  candles;  then  he 
went  out  and  returned  a  minute  later  with  a  cup  of 
tea  on  a  tray. 


154     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at?  "  she  asked,  noticing 
a  smile  on  his  face. 

"  I  was  downstairs  and  heard  the  jokes  you  were 
making  about  Pimenov  .  .  ."  he  said,  and  put  his 
hand  before  his  laughing  mouth.  "  If  he  were  sat 
down  to  dinner  today  with  Viktor  Nikolaevitch  and 
the  general,  he'd  have  died  of  fright."  Mishenka's 
shoulders  were  shaking  with  laughter.  "  He  doesn't 
know  even  how  to  hold  his  fork,  I  bet." 

The  footman's  laughter  and  words,  his  reefer 
jacket  and  moustache,  gave  Anna  Akimovna  a  feel- 
ing of  uncleanness.  She  shut  her  eyes  to  avoid  see- 
ing him,  and,  against  her  own  will,  imagined  Pimenov 
dining  with  Lysevitch  and  Krylin,  and  his  timid,  un- 
intellectual  figure  seemed  to  her  pitiful  and  helpless, 
and  she  felt  repelled  by  it.  And  only  now,  for  the 
first  time  in  the  whole  day,  she  realized  clearly  that 
all  she  had  said  and  thought  about  Pimenov  and  mar- 
rying a  workman  was  nonsense,  folly,  and  wilful- 
ness.  To  convince  herself  of  the  opposite,  to  over- 
come her  repulsion,  she  tried  to  recall  what  she  had 
said  at  dinner,  but  now  she  could  not  see  anything 
in  it:  shame  at  her  own  thoughts  and  actions,  and 
the  fear  that  she  had  said  something  improper  dur- 
ing the  day,  and  disgust  at  her  own  lack  of  spirit, 
overwhelmed  her  completely.  She  took  up  a  candle 
and,  as  rapidly  as  if  some  one  were  pursuing  her, 
ran  downstairs,  woke  Spiridonovna,  and  began  as- 


A  Woman's  Kingdom  155 

suring  her  she  had  been  joking.  Then  she  went  to 
her  bedroom.  Red-haired  Masha,  who  was  dozing 
in  an  arm-chair  near  the  bed,  jumped  up  and  began 
shaking  up  the  pillows.  Her  face  was  exhausted 
and  sleepy,  and  her  magnificent  hair  had  fallen  on 
one  side. 

"  Tchalikov  came  again  this  evening,"  she  said, 
yawning,  "but  I  did  not  dare  to  announce  him; 
he  was  very  drunk.  He  says  he  will  come  again 
tomorrow." 

"  What  does  he  want  with  me?  "  said  Anna  Aki- 
movna,  and  she  flung  her  comb  on  the  floor.  "  I 
won't  see  him,  I  won't." 

She  made  up  her  mind  she  had  no  one  left  in 
life  but  this  Tchalikov,  that  he  would  never  leave 
off  persecuting  her,  and  would  remind  her  every  day 
how  uninteresting  and  absurd  her  life  was.  So  all 
she  was  fit  for  was  to  help  the  poor.  Oh,  how 
stupid  it  was ! 

She  lay  down  without  undressing,  and  sobbed 
with  shame  and  depression:  what  seemed  to  her 
most  vexatious  and  stupid  of  all  was  that  her 
dreams  that  day  about  Pimenov  had  been  right, 
lofty,  honourable,  but  at  the  same  time  she  felt  that 
Lysevitch  and  even  Krylin  were  nearer  to  her  than 
Pimenov  and  all  the  workpeople  taken  together. 
She  thought  that  if  the  long  day  she  had  just  spent 
could  have  been  represented  in  a  picture,  all  that 


156     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

had  been  bad  and  vulgar  —  as,  for  instance,  the 
dinner,  the  lawyer's  talk,  the  game  of  "  kings  " — 
would  have  been  true,  while  her  dreams  and  talk 
about  Pimenov  would  have  stood  out  from  the  whole 
as  something  false,  as  out  of  drawing;  and  she 
thought,  too,  that  it  was  too  late  to  dream  of  happi- 
ness, that  everything  was  over  for  her,  and  it  was 
impossible  to  go  back  to  the  life  when  she  had  slept 
under  the  same  quilt  with  her  mother,  or  to  devise 
some  new  special  sort  of  life. 

Red-haired  Masha  was  kneeling  before  the  bed, 
gazing  at  her  in  mournful  perplexity;  then  she,  too, 
began  crying,  and  laid  her  face  against  her  mis- 
tress's arm,  and  without  words  it  was  clear  why  she 
was  so  wretched. 

"We  are  fools!"  said  Anna  Akimovna,  laugh- 
ing and  crying.  "We  are  fools!  Oh,  what  fools 


we  are !  " 


A  PROBLEM 


A  PROBLEM 

THE  strictest  measures  were  taken  that  the  Us- 
kovs'  family  secret  might  not  leak  out  and  become 
generally  known.  Half  of  the  servants  were  sent 
off  to  the  theatre  or  the  circus;  the  other  half  were 
sitting  in  the  kitchen  and  not  allowed  to  leave  it. 
Orders  were  given  that  no  one  was  to  be  admitted. 
The  wife  of  the  Colonel,  her  sister,  and  the  gover- 
ness, though  they  had  been  initiated  into  the  secret, 
kept  up  a  pretence  of  knowing  nothing;  they  sat  in 
the  dining-room  and  did  not  show  themselves  in  the 
drawing-room  or  the  hall. 

Sasha  Uskov,  the  young  man  of  twenty-five  who 
was  the  cause  of  all  the  commotion,  had  arrived 
some  time  before,  and  by  the  advice  of  kind-hearted 
Ivan  Markovitch,  his  uncle,  who  was  taking  his  part, 
he  sat  meekly  in  the  hall  by  the  door  leading  to  the 
study,  and  prepared  himself  to  make  an  open,  can- 
did explanation. 

The  other  side  of  the  door,  in  the  study,  a  family 
council  was  being  held.  The  subject  under  discus- 
sion was  an  exceedingly  disagreeable  and  delicate 
one.  Sasha  Uskov  had  cashed  at  one  of  the  banks 

159 


160     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

a  false  promissory  note,  and  it  had  become  due  tor 
payment  three  days  before,  and  now  his  two  paternal 
uncles  and  Ivan  Markovitch,  the  brother  of  his  dead 
mother,  were  deciding  the  question  whether  they 
should  pay  the  money  and  save  the  family  honour, 
or  wash  their  hands  of  it  and  leave  the  case  to  go 
for  trial. 

To  outsiders  who  have  no  personal  interest  in  the 
matter  such  questions  seem  simple;  for  those  who  are 
so  unfortunate  as  to  have  to  decide  them  in  earnest 
they  are  extremely  difficult.  The  uncles  had  been 
talking  for  a  long  time,  but  the  problem  seemed  no 
nearer  decision. 

"  My  friends !  "  said  the  uncle  who  was  a  colonel, 
and  there  was  a  note  of  exhaustion  and  bitterness 
in  his  voice.  "  Who  aays  that  family  honour  is  a 
mere  convention?  I  don't  say  that  at  all.  I  am 
only  warning  you  against  a  false  view;  I  am  point- 
ing out  the  possibility  of  an  unpardonable  mistake. 
How  can  you  fail  to  see  it?  I  am  not  speaking 
Chinese;  I  am  speaking  Russian!  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  we  do  understand,"  Ivan 
Markovitch  protested  mildly. 

"  How  can  you  understand  if  you  say  that  I  don't 
believe  in  family  honour?  I  repeat  once  more:  fa- 
mil-y  ho-nour  fal-sely  un-der-stood  is  a  prejudice! 
Falsely  understood!  That's  what  I  say:  whatever 
may  be  the  motives  for  screening  a  scoundrel,  who- 


A  Problem  161 

ever  he  may  be,  and  helping  him  to  escape  punish- 
ment, it  is  contrary  to  law  and  unworthy  of  a  gentle- 
man. It's  not  saving  the  family  honour;  it's  civic 
cowardice !  Take  the  army,  for  instance.  .  .  .  The 
honour  of  the  army  is  more  precious  to  us  than  any 
other  honour,  yet  we  don't  screen  our  guilty  mem- 
bers, but  condemn  them.  And  does  the  honour  of 
the  army  suffer  in  consequence?  Quite  the  oppo- 
site!" 

The  other  paternal  uncle,  an  official  in  the  Treas- 
ury, a  taciturn,  dull-witted,  and  rheumatic  man,  sat 
silent,  or  spoke  only  of  the  fact  that  the  Uskovs' 
name  would  get  into  the  newspapers  if  the  case  went 
for  trial.  His  opinion  was  that  the  case  ought  to 
be  hushed  up  from  the  first  and  not  become  public 
property;  but,  apart  from  publicity  in  the  newspa- 
pers, he  advanced  no  other  argument  in  support  of 
this  opinion. 

The  maternal  uncle,  kind-hearted  Ivan  Marko- 
vitch,  spoke  smoothly,  softly,  and  with  a  tremor  in 
his  voice.  He  began  with  saying  that  youth  has 
its  rights  and  its  peculiar  temptations.  Which  of 
us  has  not  been  young,  and  who  has  not  been  led 
astray?  To  say  nothing  of  ordinary  mortals,  even 
great  men  have  not  escaped  errors  and  mistakes  in 
their  youth.  Take,  for  instance,  the  biography  of 
great  writers.  Did  not  every  one  of  them  gamble, 
drink,  and  draw  down  upon  himself  the  anger  of 


162     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

right-thinking  people  in  his  young  days?  If  Sasha's 
error  bordered  upon  crime,  they  must  remember  that 
Sasha  had  received  practically  no  education;  he  had 
been  expelled  from  the  high  school  in  the  fifth  class; 
he  had  lost  his  parents  in  early  childhood,  and  so 
had  been  left  at  the  tenderest  age  without  guidance 
and  good,  benevolent  influences.  He  was  nervous, 
excitable,  had  no  firm  ground  under  his  feet,  and, 
above  all,  he  had  been  unlucky.  Even  if  he  were 
guilty,  anyway  he  deserved  indulgence  and  the  sym- 
pathy of  all  compassionate  souls.  He  ought,  of 
course,  to  be  punished,  but  he  was  punished  as  it 
was  by  his  conscience  and  the  agonies  he  was  en- 
during now  while  awaiting  the  sentence  of  his  rela- 
tions. The  comparison  with  the  army  made  by  the 
Colonel  was  delightful,  and  did  credit  to  his  lofty 
intelligence;  his  appeal  to  their  feeling  of  public 
duty  spoke  for  the  chivalry  of  his  soul,  but  they 
must  not  forget  that  in  each  individual  the  citizen 
is  closely  linked  with  the  Christian.  .  .  . 

"  Shall  we  be  false  to  civic  duty,"  Ivan  Marko- 
vitch  exclaimed  passionately,  "  if  instead  of  punish- 
ing an  erring  boy  we  hold  out  to  him  a  helping 
hand?" 

Ivan  Markovitch  talked  further  of  family  honour. 
He  had  not  the  honour  to  belong  to  the  Uskov  fam- 
ily himself,  but  he  knew  their  distinguished  family- 
went  back  to  the  thirteenth  century;  he  did  not  forget 


A  Problem  163 

for  a  minute,  either,  that  his  precious,  beloved  sister 
had  been  the  wife  of  one  of  the  representatives  of 
that  name.  In  short,  the  family  was  dear  to  him 
for  many  reasons,  and  he  refused  to  admit  the  idea 
that,  for  the  sake  of  a  paltry  fifteen  hundred  roubles, 
a  blot  should  be  cast  on  the  escutcheon  that  was  be- 
yond all  price.  If  all  the  motives  he  had  brought 
forward  were  not  sufficiently  convincing,  he,  Ivan 
Markovitch,  in  conclusion,  begged  his  listeners  to 
ask  themselves  what  was  meant  by  crime?  Crime 
is  an  immoral  act  founded  upon  ill-will.  But  is  the 
will  of  man  free?  Philosophy  has  not  yet  given  a 
positive  answer  to  that  question.  Different  views 
were  held  by  the  learned.  The  latest  school  of  Lom- 
broso,  for  instance,  denies  the  freedom  of  the  will, 
and  considers  every  crime  as  the  product  of  the 
purely  anatomical  peculiarities  of  the  individual. 

"  Ivan  Markovitch,"  said  the  Colonel,  in  a  voice 
of  entreaty,  "  we  are  talking  seriously  about  an  im- 
portant matter,  and  you  bring  in  Lombroso,  you 
clever  fellow.  Think  a  little,  what  are  you  saying 
all  this  for?  Can  you  imagine  that  all  your  thun- 
derings  and  rhetoric  will  furnish  an  answer  to  the 
question?  " 

Sasha  Uskov  sat  at  the  door  and  listened.  He 
felt  neither  terror,  shame,  nor  depression,  but  only 
weariness  and  inward  emptiness.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  it  made  absolutely  no  difference  to  him  whether 


164     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

they  forgave  him  or  not;  he  had  come  here  to  hear 
his  sentence  and  to  explain  himself  simply  because 
kind-hearted  Ivan  Markovitch  had  begged  him  to 
do  so.  He  was  not  afraid  of  the  future.  It  made 
no  difference  to  him  where  he  was:  here  in  the  hall, 
in  prison,  or  in  Siberia. 

"  If  Siberia,  then  let  it  be  Siberia,  damn  it  all!  " 

He  was  sick  of  life  and  found  it  insufferably  hard. 
He  was  inextricably  involved  in  debt;  he  had  not 
a  farthing  in  his  pocket;  his  family  had  become  de- 
testable to  him;  he  would  have  to  part  from  his 
friends  and  his  women  sooner  or  later,  as  they  had 
begun  to  be  too  contemptuous  of  his  sponging  on 
them.  The  future  looked  black. 

Sasha  was  indifferent,  and  was  only  disturbed  by 
one  circumstance;  the  other  side  of  the  door  they 
were  calling  him  a  scoundrel  and  a  criminal.  Every 
minute  he  was  on  the  point  of  jumping  up,  bursting 
into  the  study  and  shouting  in  answer  to  the  detest- 
able metallic  voice  of  the  Colonel: 

"You  are  lying!" 

"  Criminal "  is  a  dreadful  word  —  that  is  what 
murderers,  thieves,  robbers  are;  in  fact,  wicked  and 
morally  hopeless  people.  And  Sasha  was  very  far 
from  being  all  that.  ...  It  was  true  he  owed  a 
great  deal  and  did  not  pay  his  debts.  But  debt  is 
not  a  crime,  and  it  is  unusual  for  a  man  not  to  be 


A  Problem  165 

in  debt.  The  Colonel  and  Ivan  Markovitch  were 
b^th  in  debt.  .  .  . 

"  What  have  I  done  wrong  besides?  "  Sasha  won- 
dered. 

He  had  discounted  a  forged  note.  But  all  the 
young  men  he  knew  did  the  same.  Handrikov  and 
Von  Burst  always  forged  lOU's  from  their  parents 
or  friends  when  their  allowances  were  not  paid  at 
the  regular  time,  and  then  when  they  got  their 
money  from  home  they  redeemed  them  before  they 
became  due.  Sasha  had  done  the  same,  but  had  not 
redeemed  the  IOU  because  he  had  not  got  the  money 
which  Handrikov  had  promised  to  lend  him.  He 
was  not  to  blame ;  it  was  the  fault  of  circumstances. 
It  was  true  that  the  use  of  another  person's  signa- 
ture was  considered  reprehensible;  but,  still,  it  was 
not  a  crime  but  a  generally  accepted  dodge,  an  ugly 
formality  which  injured  no  one  and  was  quite  harm- 
less, for  in  forging  the  Colonel's  signature  Sasha  had 
had  no  intention  of  causing  anybody  damage  or  loss. 

"  No,  it  doesn't  mean  that  I  am  a  criminal  .  .  ." 
thought  Sasha.  "  And  it's  not  in  my  character  to 
bring  myself  to  commit  a  crime.  I  am  soft,  emo- 
tional. .  .  .  When  I  have  the  money  I  help  the 
poor.  .  .  ." 

Sasha  was  musing  after  this  fashion  while  they 
went  on  talking  the  other  side  of  the  door. 


166      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  But,  my  friends,  this  is  endless,"  the  Colonel 
declared,  getting  excited.  "  Suppose  we  were  to  for- 
give him  and  pay  the  money.  You  know  he  would 
not  give  up  leading  a  dissipated  life,  squandering 
money,  making  debts,  going  to  our  tailors  and  order- 
ing suits  in  our  names!  Can  you  guarantee  that 
this  will  be  his  last  prank?  As  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, I  have  no  faith  whatever  in  his  reforming!  " 

The  official  of  the  Treasury  muttered  something 
in  reply;  after  him  Ivan  Markovitch  began  talking 
blandly  and  suavely  again.  The  Colonel  moved  his 
chair  impatiently  and  drowned  the  other's  words  with 
his  detestable  metallic  voice.  At  last  the  door 
opened  and  Ivan  Markovitch  came  out  of  the  study; 
there  were  patches  of  red  on  his  lean  shaven  face. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said,  taking  Sasha  by  the  hand. 
"  Come  and  speak  frankly  from  your  heart.  With- 
out pride,  my  dear  boy,  humbly  and  from  your 
heart." 

Sasha  went  into  the  study.  The  official  of  the 
Treasury  was  sitting  down;  the  Colonel  was  stand- 
ing before  the  table  with  one  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
one  knee  on  a  chair.  It  was  smoky  and  stifling 
in  the  study.  Sasha  did  not  look  at  the  official  or 
the  Colonel;  he  felt  suddenly  ashamed  and  uncom- 
fortable. He  looked  uneasily  at  Ivan  Markovitch 
and  muttered : 

"  I'll  pay  it  ...   I'll  give  it  back.  .  .  ." 


A  Problem  167 

'  What  did  you  expect  when  you  discounted  the 
IOU?  "  he  heard  a  metallic  voice. 

"I  ...  Handrikov  promised  to  lend  me  the 
money  before  now." 

Sasha  could  say  no  more.  He  went  out  of  the 
study  and  sat  down  again  on  the  chair  near  the  door. 
He  would  have  been  glad  to  go  away  altogether  at 
once,  but  he  was  choking  with  hatred  and  he  awfully 
wanted  to  remain,  to  tear  the  Colonel  to  pieces,  to 
say  something  rude  to  him.  He  sat  trying  to  think 
of  something  violent  and  effective  to  say  to  his  hated 
uncle,  and  at  that  moment  a  woman's  figure,  shrouded 
in  the  twilight,  appeared  at  the  drawing-room  door. 
It  was  the  Colonel's  wife.  She  beckoned  Sasha  to 
her,  and,  wringing  her  hands,  said,  weeping: 

"  Alexandre,  I  know  you  don't  like  me,  but  .  .  . 
listen  to  me;  listen,  I  beg  you.  .  .  .  But,  my  dear, 
how  can  this  have  happened?  Why,  it's  awful,  aw- 
ful! For  goodness'  sake,  beg  them,  defend  your- 
self, entreat  them." 

Sasha  looked  at  her  quivering  shoulders,  at  the 
big  tears  that  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  heard 
behind  his  back  the  hollow,  nervous  voices  of  wor- 
ried and  exhausted  people,  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. He  had  not  in  the  least  expected  that  his 
aristocratic  relations  would  raise  such  a  tempest  over 
a  paltry  fifteen  hundred  roubles !  He  could  not  un- 
derstand her  tears  nor  the  quiver  of  their  voices. 


168      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

An  hour  later  he  heard  that  the  Colonel  was  get- 
ting the  best  of  it;  the  uncles  were  finally  inclining 
to  let  the  case  go  for  trial. 

"  The  matter's  settled,"  said  the  Colonel,  sigh- 
ing. "  Enough." 

After  this  decision  all  the  uncles,  even  the  em- 
phatic Colonel,  became  noticeably  depressed.  A  si- 
lence followed. 

"  Merciful  Heavens !  "  sighed  Ivan  Markovitch. 
"  My  poor  sister!  " 

And  he  began  saying  in  a  subdued  voice  that  most 
likely  his  sister,  Sasha's  mother,  was  present  unseen 
in  the  study  at  that  moment.  He  felt  in  his  soul 
how  the  unhappy,  saintly  woman  was  weeping,  griev- 
ing, and  begging  for  her  boy.  For  the  sake  of  her 
peace  beyond  the  grave,  they  ought  to  spare  Sasha. 

The  sound  of  a  muffled  sob  was  heard.  Ivan 
Markovitch  was  weeping  and  muttering  something 
which  it  was  impossible  to  catch  through  the  door. 
The  Colonel  got  up  and  paced  from  corner  to  corner. 
The  long  conversation  began  over  again. 

But  then  the  clock  in  the  drawing-room  struck 
two.  The  family  council  was  over.  To  avoid  see- 
ing the  person  who  had  moved  him  to  such  wrath, 
the  Colonel  went  from  the  study,  not  into  the  hall, 
but  into  the  vestibule.  .  .  .  Ivan  Markovitch  came 
out  into  the  hall.  .  .  .  He  was  agitated  and  rubbing 
his  hands  joyfully.  His  tear-stained  eyes  looked 


A  Problem  169 

good-humoured  and  his  mouth  was  twisted  into  a 
smile. 

"Capital,"  he  said  to  Sasha.  "Thank  God! 
You  can  go  home,  my  dear,  and  sleep  tranquilly. 
We  have  decided  to  pay  the  sum,  but  on  condition 
that  you  repent  and  come  with  me  tomorrow  into 
the  country  and  set  to  work." 

A  minute  later  Ivan  Markovitch  and  Sasha  in 
their  great-coats  and  caps  were  going  down  the 
stairs.  The  uncle  was  muttering  something  edify- 
ing. Sasha  did  not  listen,  but  felt  as  though  some 
uneasy  weight  were  gradually  slipping  off  his  shoul- 
ders. They  had  forgiven  him;  he  was  free!  A 
gust  of  joy  sprang  up  within  him  and  sent  a  sweet 
chill  to  his  heart.  He  longed  to  breathe,  to  move 
swiftly,  to  live!  Glancing  at  the  street  lamps  and 
the  black  sky,  he  remembered  that  Von  Burst  was 
celebrating  his  name-day  that  evening  at  the  "  Bear," 
and  again  a  rush  of  joy  flooded  his  soul.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  going!  "  he  decided. 

But  then  he  remembered  he  had  not  a  farthing, 
that  the  companions  he  w&s  going  to  would  despise 
him  at  once  for  his  empty  pockets.  He  must  get 
hold  of  some  money,  come  what  may! 

"  Uncle,  lend  me  a  hundred  roubles,"  he  said  to 
Ivan  Markovitch. 

His  uncle,  surprised,  looked  into  his  face  and 
backed  against  a  lamp-post. 


170     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

u  Give  it  to  me,"  said  Sasha,  shifting  impatiently 
from  one  foot  to  the  other  and  beginning  to  pant. 
"  Uncle,  I  entreat  you,  give  me  a  hundred  roubles." 

His  face  worked;  he  trembled,  and  seemed  on  the 
point  of  attacking  his  uncle.  .  .  . 

"Won't  you?"  he  kept  asking,  seeing  that  his 
uncle  was  still  amazed  and  did  not  understand. 
"  Listen.  If  you  don't,  I'll  give  myself  up  tomor- 
row! I  won't  let  you  pay  the  IOU!  I'll  present 
another  false  note  tomorrow!  " 

Petrified,  muttering  something  incoherent  in  his 
horror,  Ivan  Markovitch  took  a  hundred-rouble  note 
out  of  his  pocket-book  and  gave  it  to  Sasha.  The 
young  man  took  it  and  walked  rapidly  away  from 
him.  .  .  . 

Taking  a  sledge,  Sasha  grew  calmer,  and  felt  a 
rush  of  joy  within  him  again.  The  "  rights  of 
youth  "  of  which  kind-hearted  Ivan  Markovitch  had 
spoken  at  the  family  council  woke  up  and  asserted 
themselves.  Sasha  pictured  the  drinking-party  be- 
fore him,  and,  among  the  bottles,  the  women,  and  his 
friends,  the  thought  flashed  through  his  mind: 

"Now  I  see  that  I  am  a  criminal;  yes,  I  am  a 
criminal." 


THE  KISS 


THE  KISS 

Ax  eight  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  twentieth 

of  May  all  the  six  batteries  of  the  N Reserve 

Artillery  Brigade  halted  for  the  night  in  the  village 
of  Myestetchki  on  their  way  to  camp.  When  the 
general  commotion  was  at  its  height,  while  some 
officers  were  busily  occupied  around  the  guns,  while 
others,  gathered  together  in  the  square  near  the 
church  enclosure,  were  listening  to  the  quartermas- 
ters, a  man  in  civilian  dress,  riding  a  strange  horse, 
came  into  sight  round  the  church.  The  little  dun- 
coloured  horse  with  a  good  neck  and  a  short  tail 
came,  moving  not  straight  forward,  but  as  it  were 
sideways,  with  a  sort  of  dance  step,  as  though  it 
were  being  lashed  about  the  legs.  When  he  reached 
the  officers  the  man  on  the  horse  took  off  his  hat  and 
said: 

"  His  Excellency  Lieutenant-General  von  Rabbek 
invites  the  gentlemen  to  drink  tea  with  him  this  min- 
ute. .  .  ." 

The  horse  turned,  danced,  and  retired  sideways; 
the  messenger  raised  his  hat  once  more,  and  in  an 
instant  disappeared  with  his  strange  horse  behind 
the  church. 

173 


174     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  What  the  devil  does  it  mean?  "  grumbled  some 
of  the  officers,  dispersing  to  their  quarters.  "  One 
is  sleepy,  and  here  this  Von  Rabbek  with  his  tea ! 
We  know  what  tea  means." 

The  officers  of  all  the  six  batteries  remembered 
vividly  an  incident  of  the  previous  year,  when  dur- 
ing manoeuvres  they,  together  with  the  officers  of  a 
Cossack  regiment,  were  in  the  same  way  invited  to 
tea  by  a  count  who  had  an  estate  in  the  neighbour- 
hood and  was  a  retired  army  officer:  the  hospitable 
and  genial  count  made  much  of  them,  fed  them,  and 
gave  them  drink,  refused  to  let  them  go  to  their 
quarters  in  the  village  and  made  them  stay  the  night. 
All  that,  of  course,  was  very  nice  —  nothing  better 
could  be  desired,  but  the  worst  of  it  was,  the  old 
army  officer  was  so  carried  away  by  the  pleasure  of 
the  young  men's  company  that  till  sunrise  he  was  tell- 
ing the  officers  anecdotes  of  his  glorious  past,  tak- 
ing them  over  the  house,  showing  them  expensive 
pictures,  old  engravings,  rare  guns,  reading  them 
autograph  letters  from  great  people,  while  the  weary 
and  exhausted  officers  looked  and  listened,  longing 
for  their  beds  and  yawning  in  their  sleeves;  when 
at  last  their  host  let  them  go,  it  was  too  late  for 
sleep. 

Might  not  this  Von  Rabbek  be  just  such  another? 
Whether  he  were  or  not,  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
The  officers  changed  their  uniforms,  brushed  them- 


The  Kiss  175 

selves,  and  went  all  together  in  search  of  the  gen- 
tleman's house.  In  the  square  by  the  church  they 
were  told  they  could  get  to  His  Excellency's  by  the 
lower  path  —  going  down  behind  the  church  to  the 
river,  going  along  the  bank  to  the  garden,  and  there 
an  avenue  would  taken  them  to  the  house;  or  by  the 
upper  way  —  straight  from  the  church  by  the  road 
which,  half  a  mile  from  the  village,  led  right  up  to 
His  Excellency's  granaries.  The  officers  decided  to 
go  by  the  upper  way. 

"  What  Von  Rabbek  is  it?  "  they  wondered  on  the 
way.  "  Surely  not  the  one  who  was  in  command 
of  the  N cavalry  division  at  Plevna?  " 

"  No,  that  was  not  Von  Rabbek,  but  simply 
Rabbe  and  no  '  von.'  ' 

"What  lovely  weather!  " 

At  the  first  of  the  granaries  the  road  divided  in 
two:  one  branch  went  straight  on  and  vanished  in 
the  evening  darkness,  the  other  led  to  the  owner's 
house  on  the  right.  The  officers  turned  to  the  right 
and  began  to  speak  more  softly.  .  .  .  On  both  sides 
of  the  road  stretched  stone  granaries  with  red  roofs, 
heavy  and  sullen-looking,  very  much  like  barracks 
of  a  district  town.  Ahead  of  them  gleamed  the 
windows  of  the  manor-house. 

"A  good  omen,  gentlemen,"  said  one  of  the  offi- 
cers. "  Our  setter  is  the  foremost  of  all;  no  doubt 
he  scents  game  ahead  of  us!  .  .  ," 


176     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

Lieutenant  Lobytko,  who  was  walking  in  front, 
a  tall  and  stalwart  fellow,  though  entirely  without 
moustache  (he  was  over  five-and-twenty,  yet  for 
some  reason  there  was  no  sign  of  hair  on  his  round, 
well-fed  face),  renowned  in  the  brigade  for  his  pe- 
culiar faculty  for  divining  the  presence  of  women  at 
a  distance,  turned  round  and  said: 

"  Yes,  there  must  be  women  here;  I  feel  that  by 
instinct." 

On  the  threshold  the  officers  were  met  by  Von 
Rabbek  himself,  a  comely-looking  man  of  sixty  in 
civilian  dress.  Shaking  hands  with  his  guests,  he 
said  that  he  was  very  glad  and  happy  to  see  them, 
but  begged  them  earnestly  for  God's  sake  to  excuse 
him  for  not  asking  them  to  stay  the  night;  two  sisters 
with  their  children,  some  brothers,  and  some  neigh- 
bours, had  come  on  a  visit  to  him,  so  that  he  had  not 
one  spare  room  left. 

The  General  shook  hands  with  every  one,  made 
his  apologies,  and  smiled,  but  it  was  evident  by  his 
face  that  he  was  by  no  means  so  delighted  as  their 
last  year's  count,  and  that  he  had  invited  the  officers 
simply  because,  in  his  opinion,  it  was  a  social  obliga- 
tion to  do  so.  And  the  officers  themselves,  as  they 
walked  up  the  softly  carpeted  stairs,  as  they  lis- 
tened to  him,  felt  that  they  had  been  invited  to  this 
house  simply  because  it  would  have  been  awkward 
not  to  invite  them;  and  at  the  sight  of  the  footmen, 


The  Kiss  177 

who  hastened  to  light  the  lamps  in  the  entrance  be- 
low and  in  the  anteroom  above,  they  began  to  feel 
as  though  they  had  brought  uneasiness  and  discom- 
fort into  the  house  with  them.  In  a  house  in  which 
two  sisters  and  their  children,  brothers,  and  neigh- 
bours were  gathered  together,  probably  on  account 
of  some  family  festivity,  or  event,  how  could  the 
presence  of  nineteen  unknown  officers  possibly  be 
welcome  ? 

At  the  entrance  to  the  drawing-room  the  officers 
were  met  by  a  tall,  graceful  old  lady  with  black 
eyebrows  and  a  long  face,  very  much  like  the  Em- 
press Eugenie.  Smiling  graciously  and  majestically, 
she  said  she  was  glad  and  happy  to  see  her  guests, 
and  apologized  that  her  husband  and  she  were  on 
this  occasion  unable  to  invite  messieurs  les  offlciers 
to  stay  the  night.  From  her  beautiful  majestic 
smile,  which  instantly  vanished  from  her  face  every 
time  she  turned  away  from  her  guests,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  she  had  seen  numbers  of  officers  in  her  day, 
that  she  was  in  no  humour  for  them  now,  and  if  she 
invited  them  to  her  house  and  apologized  for  not 
doing  more,  it  was  only  because  her  breeding  and 
position  in  society  required  it  of  her. 

When  the  officers  went  into  the  big  dining-room, 
there  were  about  a  dozen  people,  men  and  ladies, 
young  and  old,  sitting  at  tea  at  the  end  of  a  long 
table.  A  group  of  men  was  dimly  visible  behind 


178     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

their  chairs,  wrapped  in  a  haze  of  cigar  smoke;  and 
in  the  midst  of  them  stood  a  lanky  young  man  with 
red  whiskers,  talking  loudly,  with  a  lisp,  in  English. 
Through  a  door  beyond  the  group  could  be  seen  a 
light  room  with  pale  blue  furniture. 

"  Gentlemen,  there  are  so  many  of  you  that  it  is 
impossible  to  introduce  you  all!  "  said  the  General 
in  a  loud  voice,  trying  to  sound  very  cheerful. 
"  Make  each  other's  acquaintance,  gentlemen,  with- 
out any  ceremony!  " 

The  officers  —  some  with  very  serious  and  even 
stern  faces,  others  with  forced  smiles,  and  all  feel- 
ing extremely  awkward  —  somehow  made  their 
bows  and  sat  down  to  tea. 

The  most  ill  at  ease  of  them  all  was  Ryabovitch  — 
a  little  officer  in  spectacles,  with  sloping  shoulders, 
and  whiskers  like  a  lynx's.  While  some  of  his 
comrades  assumed  a  serious  expression,  while  others 
wore  forced  smiles,  his  face,  his  lynx-like  whiskers, 
and  spectacles  seemed  to  say:  "I  am  the  shyest, 
most  modest,  and  most  undistinguished  officer  in  the 
whole  brigade !  "  At  first,  on  going  into  the  room 
and  sitting  down  to  the  table,  he  could  not  fix  his 
attention  on  any  one  face  or  object.  The  faces,  the 
dresses,  the  cut-glass  decanters  of  brandy,  the  steam 
from  the  glasses,  the  moulded  cornices  —  all  blended 
in  one  general  impression  that  inspired  "in  Ryabo- 
vitch alarm  and  a  desire  to  hide  his  head.  Like  a 


The  Kiss  179 

lecturer  making  his  first  appearance  before  the  pub- 
lic, he  saw  everything  that  was  before  his  eyes,  but 
apparently  only  had  a  dim  understanding  of  it 
(among  physiologists  this  condition,  when  the  sub- 
ject sees  but  does  not  understand,  is  called  psychical 
blindness).  After  a  little  while,  growing  accus- 
tomed to  his  surroundings,  Ryabovitch  saw  clearly 
and  began  to  observe.  As  a  shy  man,  unused  to  so- 
ciety, what  struck  him  first  was  that  in  which  he  had 
always  been  deficient  —  namely,  the  extraordinary 
boldness  of  his  new  acquaintances.  Von  Rabbek, 
his  wife,  two  elderly  ladies,  a  young  lady  in  a  lilac 
dress,  and  the  young  man  with  the  red  whiskers, 
who  was,  it  appeared,  a  younger  son  of  Von  Rab- 
bek, very  cleverly,  as  though  they  had  rehearsed  it 
beforehand,  took  seats  between  the  officers,  and  at 
once  got  up  a  heated  discussion  in  which  the  visitors 
could  not  help  taking  part.  The  lilac  young  lady 
hotly  asserted  that  the  artillery  had  a  much  better 
time  than  the  cavalry  and  the  infantry,  while  Von 
Rabbek  and  the  elderly  ladies  maintained  the  oppo- 
site. A  brisk  interchange  of  talk  followed.  Ryabo- 
vitch watched  the  lilac  young  lady  who  argued  so 
hotly  about  what  was  unfamiliar  and  utterly  unin- 
teresting to  her,  and  watched  artificial  smiles  come 
and  go  on  her  face. 

Von  Rabbek  and  his  family  skilfully  drew  the  offi- 
cers into  the  discussion,  and  meanwhile  kept  a  sharp 


180     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

lookout  over  their  glasses  and  mouths,  to  see  whether 
all  of  them  were  drinking,  whether  all  had  enough 
sugar,  why  some  one  was  not  eating  cakes  or  not 
drinking  brandy.  And  the  longer  Ryabovitch 
watched  and  listened,  the  more  he  was  attracted  by 
this  insincere  but  splendidly  disciplined  family. 

After  tea  the  officers  went  into  the  drawing-room. 
Lieutenant  Lobytko's  instinct  had  not  deceived  him. 
There  were  a  great  number  of  girls  and  young  mar- 
ried ladies.  The  "  setter "  lieutenant  was  soon 
standing  by  a  very  young,  fair  girl  in  a  black  dress, 
and,  bending  down  to  her  jauntily,  as  though  leaning 
on  an  unseen  sword,  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders coquettishly.  He  probably  talked  very  inter- 
esting nonsense,  for  the  fair  girl  looked  at  his 
well-fed  face  condescendingly  and  asked  indiffer- 
ently, "Really?"  And  from  that  uninterested 
"  Really?  "  the  setter,  had  he  been  intelligent,  might 
have  concluded  that  she  would  never  call  him  to 
heel. 

The  piano  struck  up;  the  melancholy  strains  of 
a  valse  floated  out  of  the  wide  open  windows,  and 
every  one,  for  some  reason,  remembered  that  it  was 
spring,  a  May  evening.  Every  one  was  conscious 
of  the  fragrance  of  roses,  of  lilac,  and  of  the  young 
leaves  of  the  poplar.  Ryabovitch,  in  whom  the 
brandy  he  had  drunk  made  itself  felt,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  music  stole  a  glance  towards  the  win- 


The  Kiss  181 

dow,  smiled,  and  began  watching  the  movements  of 
the  women,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  smell  of 
roses,  of  poplars,  and  lilac  came  not  from  the  gar- 
den, but  from  the  ladies'  faces  and  dresses. 

Von  Rabbek's  son  invited  a  scraggy-looking  young 
lady  to  dance,  and  waltzed  round  the  room  twice 
with  her.  Lobytko,  gliding  over  the  parquet  floor, 
flew  up  to  the  lilac  young  lady  and  whirled  her  away. 
Dancing  began.  .  .  .  Ryabovitch  stood  near  the 
door  among  those  who  were  not  dancing  and  looked 
on.  He  had  never  once  danced  in  his  whole  life, 
and  he  had  never  once  in  his  life  put  his  arm  round 
the  waist  of  a  respectable  woman.  He  was  highly 
delighted  that  a  man  should  in  the  sight  of  all  take 
a  girl  he  did  not  know  round  the  waist  and  offer  her 
his  shoulder  to  put  her  hand  on,  but  he  could  not 
imagine  himself  in  the  position  of  such  a  man. 
There  were  times  when  he  envied  the  boldness  and 
swagger  of  his  companions  and  was  inwardly 
wretched;  the  consciousness  that  he  was  timid,  that 
he  was  round-shouldered  and  uninteresting,  that 
he  had  a  long  waist  and  lynx-like  whiskers,  had 
deeply  mortified  him,  but  with  years  he  had  grown 
used  to  this  feeling,  and  now,  looking  at  his  com- 
rades dancing  or  loudly  talking,  he  no  longer  envied 
them,  but  only  felt  touched  and  mournful. 

When  the  quadrille  began,  young  Von  Rabbek 
came  up  to  those  who  were  not  dancing  and  invited 


182      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

two  officers  to  have  a  game  at  billiards.  The  offi- 
cers accepted  and  went  with  him  out  of  the  drawing- 
room.  Ryabovitch,  having  nothing  to  do  and  wish- 
ing to  take  part  in  the  general  movement,  slouched 
after  them.  From  the  big  drawing-room  they  went 
into  the  little  drawing-room,  then  into  a  narrow  cor- 
ridor with  a  glass  roof,  and  thence  into  a  room  in 
which  on  their  entrance  three  sleepy-looking  footmen 
jumped  up  quickly  from  the  sofa.  At  last,  after 
passing  through  a  long  succession  of  rooms,  young 
Von  Rabbek  and  the  officers  came  into  a  small  room 
where  there  was  a  billiard-table.  They  began  to 
play. 

Ryabovitch,  who  had  never  played  any  game  but 
cards,  stood  near  the  billiard-table  and  looked  in- 
differently at  the  players,  while  they  in  unbuttoned 
coats,  with  cues  in  their  hands,  stepped  about,  made 
puns,  and  kept  shouting  out  unintelligible  words. 

The  players  took  no  notice  of  him,  and  only  now 
and  then  one  of  them,  shoving  him  with  his  elbow 
or  accidentally  touching  him  with  the  end  of  his  cue, 
would  turn  round  and  say  "  Pardon!  "  Before  the 
first  game  was  over  he  was  weary  of  it,  and  began 
to  feel  he  was  not  wanted  and  in  the  way.  .  .  .  He 
felt  disposed  to  return  to  the  drawing-room,  and  he 
went  out. 

On  his  way  back  he  met  with  a  little  adventure. 
When  he  had  gone  half-way  he  noticed  he  had  taken 


The  Kiss  183 

a  wrong  turning.  Me  distinctly  remembered  that 
he  ought  to  meet  three  sleepy  footmen  on  his  way, 
but  he  had  passed  five  or  six  rooms,  and  those  sleepy 
figures  seemed  to  have  vanished  into  the  earth.  No- 
ticing his  mistake,  he  walked  back  a  little  way  and 
turned  to  the  right;  he  found  himself  in  a  little  dark 
room  which  he  had  not  seen  on  his  way  to  the  bil- 
liard-room. After  standing  there  a  little  while,  he 
resolutely  opened  the  first  door  that  met  his  eyes  and 
walked  into  an  absolutely  dark  room.  Straight  in 
front  could  be  seen  the  crack  in  the  doorway  through 
which  there  was  a  gleam  of  vivid  light;  from  the 
other  side  of  the  door  came  the  muffled  sound  of  a 
melancholy  mazurka.  Here,  too,  as  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, the  windows  were  wide  open  and  there  was 
a  smell  of  poplars,  lilac  and  roses.  .  .  . 

Ryabovitch  stood  still  in  hesitation.  ...  At  that 
moment,  to  his  surprise,  he  heard  hurried  footsteps 
and  the  rustling  of  a  dress,  a  breathless  feminine 
voice  whispered  "At  last!"  And  two  soft,  fra- 
grant, unmistakably  feminine  arms  were  clasped 
about  his  neck;  a  warm  cheek  was  pressed  to  his 
cheek,  and  simultaneously  there  was  the  sound  of  a 
kiss.  But  at  once  the  bestower  of  the  kiss  uttered 
a  faint  shriek  and  skipped  back  from  him,  as  it 
seemed  to  Ryabovitch,  with  aversion.  He,  too,  al- 
most shrieked  and  rushed  towards  the  gleam  of  light 
at  the  door. 


184      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

When  he  went  back  into  the  drawing-room  his 
heart  was  beating  and  his  hands  were  trembling  so 
noticeably  that  he  made  haste  to  hide  them  behind 
his  back.  At  first  he  was  tormented  by  shame  and 
dread  that  the  whole  drawing-room  knew  that  he 
had  just  been  kissed  and  embraced  by  a  woman. 
He  shrank  into  himself  and  looked  uneasily  about 
him,  but  as  he  became  convinced  that  people  were 
dancing  and  talking  as  calmly  as  ever,  he  gave  him- 
self up  entirely  to  the  new  sensation  which  he  had 
never  experienced  before  in  his  life.  Something 
strange  was  happening  to  him.  .  .  .  His  neck,  round 
which  soft,  fragrant  arms  had  so  lately  been  clasped, 
seemed  to  him  to  be  anointed  with  oil;  on  his  left 
cheek  near  his  moustache  where  the  unknown  had 
kissed  him  there  was  a  faint  chilly  tingling  sensation 
as  from  peppermint  drops,  and  the  more  he  rubbed 
the  place  the  more  distinct  was  the  chilly  sensation; 
all  over,  from  head  to  foot,  he  was  full  of  a  strange 
new  feeling  which  grew  stronger  and  stronger.  .  .  . 
He  wanted  to  dance,  to  talk,  to  run  into  the  garden, 
to  laugh  aloud.  .  .  .  He  quite  forgot  that  he  was 
round-shouldered  and  uninteresting,  that  he  had 
lynx-like  whiskers  and  an  "  undistinguished  appear- 
ance "  (that  was  how  his  appearance  had  been  de- 
scribed by  some  ladies  whose  conversation  he  had 
accidentally  overheard).  When  Von  Rabbek's  wife 
happened  to  pass  by  him,  he  gave  her  such  a  broad 


The  Kiss  185 

and  friendly  smile  that  she  stood  still  and  looked 
at  him  inquiringly. 

"  I  like  your  house  immensely!  "  he  said,  setting 
his  spectacles  straight. 

The  General's  wife  smiled  and  said  that  the  house 
had  belonged  to  her  father;  then  she  asked  whether 
his  parents  were  living,  whether  he  had  long  been 
in  the  army,  why  he  was  so  thin,  and  so  on.  ... 
After  receiving  answers  to  her  questions,  she  went 
on,  and  after  his  conversation  with  her  his  smiles 
were  more  friendly  than  ever,  and  he  thought  he  was 
surrounded  by  splendid  people.  .  .  . 

At  supper  Ryabovitch  ate  mechanically  every- 
thing offered  him,  drank,  and  without  listening  to 
anything,  tried  to  understand  what  had  just  hap- 
pened to  him.  .  .  .  The  adventure  was  of  a  mys- 
terious and  romantic  character,  but  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  explain  it.  No  doubt  some  girl  or  young 
married  lady  had  arranged  a  tryst  with  some  one  in 
the  dark  room;  had  waited  a  long  time,  and  being 
nervous  and  excited  had  taken  Ryabovitch  for  her 
hero ;  this  was  the  more  probable  as  Ryabovitch  had 
stood  still  hesitating  in  the  dark  room,  so  that  he, 
too,  had  seemed  like  a  person  expecting  something. 
.  .  .  This  was  how  Ryabovitch  explained  to  himself 
the  kiss  he  had  received. 

"  And  who  is  she?  "  he  wondered,  looking  round 
at  the  women's  faces.  "  She  must  be  young,  for 


l86      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

elderly  ladies  don't  give  rendezvous.  That  she  was 
a  lady,  one  could  tell  by  the  rustle  of  her  dress,  her 
perfume,  her  voice.  .  .  ." 

His  eyes  rested  on  the  lilac  young  lady,  and  he 
thought  her  very  attractive;  she  had  beautiful  shoul- 
ders and  arms,  a  clever  face,  and  a  delightful  voice. 
Ryabovitch,  looking  at  her,  hoped  that  she  and  no 
one  else  was  his  unknown.  .  .  .  But  she  laughed 
somehow  artificially  and  wrinkled  up  her  long  nose, 
which  seemed  to  him  to  make  her  look  old.  Then 
he  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  fair  girl  in  a  black  dress. 
She  was  younger,  simpler,  and  more  genuine,  had 
a  charming  brow,  and  drank  very  daintily  out  of  her 
wineglass.  Ryabovitch  now  hoped  that  it  was  she. 
But  soon  he  began  to  think  her  face  flat,  and  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  the  one  next  her. 

"  It's  difficult  to  guess,"  he  thought,  musing.  "  If 
one  takes  the  shoulders  and  arms  of  the  lilac  one 
only,  adds  the  brow  of  the  fair  one  and  the  eyes  of 
the  one  on  the  left  of  Lobytko,  then  .  .  ." 

He  made  a  combination  of  these  things  in  his  mind 
and  so  formed  the  image  of  the  girl  who  had  kissed 
him,  the  image  that  he  wanted  her  to  have,  but  could 
not  find  at  the  table.  .  .  . 

After  supper,  replete  and  exhilarated,  the  officers 
began  to  take  leave  and  say  thank  you.  Von  Rab- 
bek  and  his  wife  began  again  apologizing  that  they 
could  not  ask  them  to  stay  the  night. 


The  Kiss  187 

'  Very,  very  glad  to  have  met  you,  gentlemen," 
said  Von  Rabbek,  and  this  time  sincerely  (probably 
because  people  are  far  more  sincere  and  good- 
humoured  at  speeding  their  parting  guests  than  on 
meeting  them).  "Delighted.  I  hope  you  will 
come  on  your  way  back !  Don't  stand  on  ceremony ! 
Where  are  you  going?  Do  you  want  to  go  by  the 
upper  way?  No,  go  across  the  garden;  it's  nearer 
here  by  the  lower  way." 

The  officers  went  out  into  the  garden.  After 
the  bright  light  and  the  noise  the  garden  seemed 
very  dark  and  quiet.  They  walked  in  silence  all 
the  way  to  the  gate.  They  were  a  little  drunk, 
pleased,  and  in  good  spirits,  but  the  darkness  and 
silence  made  them  thoughtful  for  a  minute.  Prob- 
ably the  same  idea  occurred  to  each  one  of  them  as 
to  Ryabovitch:  would  there  ever  come  a  time  for 
them  when,  like  Von  Rabbek,  they  would  have  a 
large  house,  a  family,  a  garden  —  when  they,  too, 
would  be  able  to  welcome  people,  even  though  in- 
sincerely, feed  them,  make  them  drunk  and  con- 
tented? 

Going  out  of  the  garden  gate,  they  all  began  talk- 
ing at  once  and  laughing  loudly  about  nothing. 
They  were  walking  now  along  the  little  path  that 
led  down  to  the  river,  and  then  ran  along  the  water's 
edge,  winding  round  the  bushes  on  the  bank,  the 
pools,  and  the  willows  that  overhung  the  water. 


l88     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

The  bank  and  the  path  were  scarcely  visible,  and 
the  other  bank  was  entirely  plunged  in  darkness. 
Stars  were  reflected  here  and  there  on  the  dark 
water;  they  quivered  and  were  broken  up  on  the  sur- 
face —  and  from  that  alone  it  could  be  seen  that  the 
river  was  flowing  rapidly.  It  was  still.  Drowsy 
curlews  cried  plaintively  on  the  further  bank,  and 
in  one  of  the  bushes  on  the  nearest  side  a  nightingale 
was  trilling  loudly,  taking  no  notice  of  the  crowd  of 
officers.  The  officers  stood  round  the  bush,  touched 
it,  but  the  nightingale  went  on  singing. 

"What  a  fellow!"  they  exclaimed  approvingly. 
"  We  stand  beside  him  and  he  takes  not  a  bit  of  no- 
tice!  What  a  rascal!  " 

At  the  end  of  the  way  the  path  went  uphill,  and, 
skirting  the  church  enclosure,  turned  into  the  road. 
Here  the  officers,  tired  with  walking  uphill,  sat  down 
and  lighted  their  cigarettes.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  river  a  murky  red  fire  came  into  sight,  and  hav- 
ing nothing  better  to  do,  they  spent  a  long  time  in 
discussing  whether  it  was  a  camp  fire  or  a  light  in  a 
window,  or  something  else.  .  .  .  Ryabovitch,  too, 
looked  at  the  light,  and  he  fancied  that  the  light 
looked  and  winked  at  him,  as  though  it  knew  about 
the  kiss. 

On  reaching  his  quarters,  Ryabovitch  undressed  as 
quickly  as  possible  and  got  into  bed.  Lobytko  and 


The  Kiss  189 

Lieutenant  Merzlyakov  —  a  peaceable,  silent  fel- 
low, who  was  considered  in  his  own  circle  a  highly 
educated  officer,  and  was  always,  whenever  it  was 
possible,  reading  the  "  Vyestnik  Evropi,"  which  he 
carried  about  with  him  everywhere  —  were  quar- 
tered in  the  same  hut  with  Ryabovitch.  Lobytko 
undressed,  walked  up  and  down  the  room  for  a  long 
while  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  not  been  satis- 
fied, and  sent  his  orderly  for  beer.  Merzlyakov 
got  into  bed,  put  a  candle  by  his  pillow  and  plunged 
into  reading  the  "  Vyestnik  Evropi." 

'  Who  was  she?  "  Ryabovitch  wondered,  looking 
at  the  smoky  ceiling. 

His  neck  still  felt  as  though  he  had  been  anointed 
with  oil,  and  there  was  still  the  chilly  sensation  near 
his  mouth  as  though  from  peppermint  drops.  The 
shoulders  and  arms  of  the  young  lady  in  lilac,  the 
brow  and  the  truthful  eyes  of  the  fair  girl  in  black, 
waists,  dresses,  and  brooches,  floated  through  his 
imagination.  He  tried  to  fix  his  attention  on  these 
images,  but  they  danced  about,  broke  up  and  flick- 
ered. When  these  images  vanished  altogether  from 
the  broad  dark  background  which  every  man  sees 
when  he  closes  his  eyes,  he  began  to  hear  hurried 
footsteps,  the  rustle  of  skirts,  the  sound  of  a  kiss  and 
—  an  intense  groundless  joy  took  possession  of  him. 
.  .  .  Abandoning  himself  to  this  joy,  he  heard  the 


190     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

orderly  return  and  announce  that  there  was  no  beer. 
Lobytko  was  terribly  indignant,  and  began  pacing  up 
and  down  again. 

"Well,  isn't  he  an  idiot?"  he  kept  saying,  stop- 
ping first  before  Ryabovitch  and  then  before  Merz- 
lyakov.  "  What  a  fool  and  a  dummy  a  man  must 
be  not  to  get  hold  of  any  beer!  Eh?  Isn't  he  a 
scoundrel?  " 

"  Of  course  you  can't  get  beer  here,"  said  Merz- 
lyakov,  not  removing  his  eyes  from  the  "  Vyestnik 
Evropi." 

"  Oh !  Is  that  your  opinion  ?  "  Lobytko  persisted. 
"  Ljord  have  mercy  upon  us,  if  you  dropped  me  on 
the  moon  I'd  find  you  beer  and  women  directly! 
I'll  go  and  find  some  at  once.  .  .  .  You  may  call  me 
an  impostor  if  I  don't!  " 

He  spent  a  long  time  in  dressing  and  pulling  on 
his  high  boots,  then  finished  smoking  his  cigarette  in 
silence  and  went  out. 

"  Rabbek,  Grabbek,  Labbek,"  he  muttered,  stop- 
ping in  the  outer  room.  "  I  don't  care  to  go  alone, 
damn  it  all!  Ryabovitch,  wouldn't  you  like  to  go 
for  a  walk?  Eh?" 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  returned,  slowly  un- 
dressed and  got  into  bed.  Merzlyakov  sighed,  put 
the  "  Vyestnik  Evropi  "  away,  and  put  out  the  light. 

"  H'm !  .  .  ."  muttered  Lobytko,  lighting  a  ciga- 
rette in  the  dark. 


The  Kiss  191 

Ryabovitch  pulled  the  bed-clothes  over  his  head, 
curled  himself  up  in  bed,  and  tried  to  gather  together 
the  floating  images  in  his  mind  and  to  combine  them 
into  one  whole.  But  nothing  came  of  it.  He  soon 
fell  asleep,  and  his  last  thought  was  that  some  one 
had  caressed  him  and  made  him  happy  —  that  some- 
thing extraordinary,  foolish,  but  joyful  and  delight- 
ful, had  come  into  his  life.  The  thought  did  not 
leave  him  even  in  his  sleep. 

When  he  woke  up  the  sensations  of  oil  on  his  neck 
and  the  chill  of  peppermint  about  his  lips  had  gone, 
but  joy  flooded  his  heart  just  as  the  day  before.  He 
looked  enthusiastically  at  the  window-frames,  gilded 
by  the  light  of  the  rising  sun,  and  listened  to  the 
movement  of  the  passers-by  in  the  street.  People 
were  talking  loudly  close  to  the  window.  Lebedet- 
sky,  the  commander  of  Ryabovitch's  battery,  who 
had  only  just  overtaken  the  brigade,  was  talking  to 
his  sergeant  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  being  always 
accustomed  to  shout. 

"  What  else?  "  shouted  the  commander. 

'  When  they  were  shoeing  yesterday,  your  high 
nobility,  they  drove  a  nail  into  Pigeon's  hoof.  The 
vet.  put  on  clay  and  vinegar;  they  are  leading  him 
apart  now.  And  also,  your  honour,  Artemyev  got 
drunk  yesterday,  and  the  lieutenant  ordered  him  to 
be  put  in  the  limber  of  a  spare  gun-carriage." 

The  sergeant  reported  that  Karpov  had  forgotten 


192      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

the  new  cords  for  the  trumpets  and  the  rings  for  the 
tents,  and  that  their  honours,  the  officers,  had  spent 
the  previous  evening  visiting  General  Von  Rabbek. 
In  the  middle  of  this  conversation  the  red-bearded 
face  of  Lebedetsky  appeared  in  the  window.  He 
screwed  up  his  short-sighted  eyes,  looking  at  the 
sleepy  faces  of  the  officers,  and  said  good-morning  to 
them. 

"  Is  everything  all  right?  "  he  asked. 

"  One  of  the  horses  has  a  sore  neck  from  the  new 
collar,"  answered  Lobytko,  yawning. 

The  commander  sighed,  thought  a  moment,  and 
said  in  a  loud  voice: 

"  I  am  thinking  of  going  to  see  Alexandra  Yev- 
grafovna.  I  must  call  on  her.  Well,  good-bye.  I 
shall  catch  you  up  in  the  evening." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  brigade  set  off  on 
its  way.  When  it  was  moving  along  the  road  by  the 
granaries,  Ryabovitch  looked  at  the  house  on  the 
right.  The  blinds  were  down  in  all  the  windows. 
Evidently  the  household  was  still  asleep.  The  one 
who  had  kissed  Ryabovitch  the  day  before  was 
asleep,  too.  He  tried  *o  imagine  her  asleep.  The 
wide-open  windows  uf  the  bedroom,  the  green 
branches  peeping  in,  the  morning  freshness,  the  scent 
of  the  poplars,  lilac,  and  roses,  the  bed,  a  chair,  and 
on  it  the  skirts  that  had  rustled  the  day  before,  the 
little  slippers,  the  little  watch  on  the  table  —  all  this 


The  Kiss  193 

he  pictured  to  himself  clearly  and  distinctly,  but  the 
features  of  the  face,  the  sweet  sleepy  smile,  just  what 
was  characteristic  and  important,  slipped  through 
his  imagination  like  quicksilver  through  the  fingers. 
When  he  had  ridden  on  half  a  mile,  he  looked  back: 
the  yellow  church,  the  house,  and  the  river,  were  all 
bathed  in  light;  the  river  with  its  bright  green  banks, 
with  the  blue  sky  reflected  in  it  and  glints  of  silver 
in  the  sunshine  here  and  there,  was  very  beautiful. 
Ryabovitch  gazed  for  the  last  time  at  Myestetchki, 
and  he  felt  as  sad  as  though  he  were  parting  with 
something  very  near  and  dear  to  him. 

And  before  him  on  the  road  lay  nothing  but  long 
familiar,  uninteresting  pictures.  .  .  .  To  right  and 
to  left,  fields  of  young  rye  and  buckwheat  with  rooks 
hopping  about  in  them.  If  one  looked  ahead,  one 
saw  dust  and  the  backs  of  men's  heads;  if  one  looked 
back,  one  saw  the  same  dust  and  faces.  .  .  .  Fore- 
most of  all  marched  four  men  with  sabres  —  this 
was  the  vanguard.  Next,  behind,  the  crowd  of 
singers,  and  behind  them  the  trumpeters  on  horse- 
back. The  vanguard  and  the  chorus  of  singers,  like 
torch-bearers  in  a  funeral  procession,  often  forgot 
to  keep  the  regulation  distance  and  pushed  a  long 
way  ahead.  .  .  .  Ryabovitch  was  with  the  first  can- 
non of  the  fifth  battery.  He  could  see  all  the  four 
batteries  moving  in  front  of  him.  For  any  one  not 
a  military  man  this  long  tedious  procession  of  a 


194     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

moving  brigade  seems  an  intricate  and  unintelligible 
muddle;  one  cannot  understand  why  there  are  so 
many  people  round  one  cannon,  and  why  it  is  drawn 
by  so  many  horses  in  such  a  strange  network  of  har- 
ness, as  though  it  really  were  so  terrible  and  heavy. 
To  Ryabovitch  it  was  all  perfectly  comprehensible 
and  therefore  uninteresting.  He  had  known  for 
ever  so  long  why  at  the  head  of  each  battery  there 
rode  a  stalwart  bombardier,  and  why  he  was  called 
a  bombardier;  immediately  behind  this  bombardier 
could  be  seen  the  horsemen  of  the  first  and  then  of 
the  middle  units.  Ryabovitch  knew  that  the  horses 
on  which  they  rode,  those  on  the  left,  were  called  one 
name,  while  those  on  the  right  were  called  another 
—  it  was  extremely  uninteresting.  Behind  the 
horsemen  came  two  shaft-horses.  On  one  of  them 
sat  a  rider  with  the  dust  of  yesterday  on  his  back  and 
a  clumsy  and  funny-looking  piece  of  wood  on  his  leg. 
Ryabovitch  knew  the  object  of  this  piece  of  wood, 
and  did  not  think  it  funny.  All  the  riders  waved 
their  whips  mechanically  and  shouted  from  time 'to 
time.  The  cannon  itself  was  ugly.  On  the  fore 
part  lay  sacks  of  oats  covered  with  canvas,  and  the 
cannon  itself  was  hung  all  over  with  kettles,  soldiers' 
knapsacks,  bags,  and  looked  like  some  small  harm- 
less animal  surrounded  for  some  unknown  reason  by 
men  and  horses.  To  the  leeward  of  it  marched  six 
men,  the  gunners,  swinging  their  arms.  After  the 


The  Kiss  195 

cannon  there  came  again  more  bombardiers,  riders, 
shaft-horses,  and  behind  them  another  cannon,  as 
ugly  and  unimpressive  as  the  first.  After  the  second 
followed  a  third,  a  fourth;  near  the  fourth  an  officer, 
and  so  on.  There  were  six  batteries  in  all  in  the 
brigade,  and  four  cannons  in  each  battery.  The 
procession  covered  half  a  mile;  it  ended  in  a  string 
of  wagons  near  which  an  extremely  attractive 
creature  —  the  ass,  Magar,  brought  by  a  battery 
commander  from  Turkey  —  paced  pensively  with 
his  long-eared  head  drooping. 

Ryabovitch  looked  indifferently  before  and  behind, 
at  the  backs  of  heads  and  at  faces;  at  any  other 
time  he  would  have  been  half  asleep,  but  now  he 
was  entirely  absorbed  in  his  new  agreeable  thoughts. 
At  first  when  the  brigade  was  setting  oft  on  the 
march  he  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  the  incident 
of  the  kiss  could  only  be  interesting  as  a  mysterious 
little  adventure,  that  it  was  in  reality  trivial,  and  to 
think  of  it  seriously,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  was  stupid; 
but  now  he  bade  farewell  to  logic  and  gave  himself 
up  to  dreams.  ...  At  one  moment  he  imagined 
himself  in  Von  Rabbek's  drawing-room  beside  a  girl 
who  was  like  the  young  lady  in  lilac  and  the  fair 
girl  in  black;  then  he  would  close  his  eyes  and  see 
himself  with  another,  entirely  unknown  girl,  whose 
features  were  very  vague.  In  his  imagination  he 
talked,  caressed  her,  leaned  on  her  shoulder,  pic- 


196     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

tured  war,  separation,  then  meeting  again,  supper 
with  his  wife,  children.  .  .  . 

"  Brakes  on  I  "  the  word  of  command  rang  out 
every  time  they  went  downhill. 

He,  too,  shouted  "  Brakes  on!  "  and  was  afraid 
this  shout  would  disturb  his  reverie  and  bring  him 
back  to  reality.  .  .  . 

As  they  passed  by  some  landowner's  estate  Ryabo- 
vitch  looked  over  the  fence  into  the  garden.  A  long 
avenue,  straight  as  a  ruler,  strewn  with  yellow  sand 
and  bordered  with  young  birch-trees,  met  his  eyes. 
.  .  .  With  the  eagerness  of  a  man  given  up  to 
dreaming,  he  pictured  to  himself  little  feminine  feet 
tripping  along  yellow  sand,  and  quite  unexpectedly 
had  a  clear  vision  in  his  imagination  of  the  girl  who 
had  kissed  him  and  whom  he  had  succeeded  in  pic- 
turing to  himself  the  evening  before  at  supper. 
This  image  remained  in  his  brain  and  did  not  desert 
him  again. 

At  midday  there  was  a  shout  in  the  rear  near  the 
string  of  wagons : 

"Easy!     Eyes  to  the  left!     Officers!" 

The  general  of  the  brigade  drove  by  in  a  carriage 
with  a  pair  of  white  horses.  He  stopped  near  the 
second  battery,  and  shouted  something  which  no  one 
understood.  Several  officers,  among  them  Ryabo- 
vitch,  galloped  up  to  them. 


The  Kiss  197 

"Well?"  asked  the  general,  blinking  his  red 
eyes.  "  Are  there  any  sick?  " 

Receiving  an  answer,  the  general,  a  little  skinny 
man,  chewed,  thought  for  a  moment  and  said,  ad- 
dressing one  of  the  officers: 

"  One  of  your  drivers  of  the  third  cannon  has 
taken  off  his  leg-guard  and  hung  it  on  the  fore  part 
of  the  cannon,  the  rascal.  Reprimand  him." 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  Ryabovitch  and  went  on: 

"  It  seems  to  me  your  front  strap  is  too  long." 

Making  a  few  other  tedious  remarks,  the  general 
looked  at  Lobytko  and  grinned. 

"  You  look  very  melancholy  today,  Lieutenant 
Lobytko,"  he  said.  "Are  you  pining  for  Madame 
Lopuhov?  Eh?  Gentlemen,  he  is  pining  for 
Madame  Lopuhov." 

The  lady  in  question  was  a  very  stout  and  tall  per- 
son who  had  long  passed  her  fortieth  year.  The 
general,  who  had  a  predilection  for  solid  ladies, 
whatever  their  ages,  suspected  a  similar  taste  in  his 
officers.  The  officers  smiled  respectfully.  The  gen- 
eral, delighted  at  having  said  something  very  amus- 
ing and  biting,  laughed  loudly,  touched  his  coach- 
man's back,  and  saluted.  The  carriage  rolled 
on.  ... 

"  All  I  am  dreaming  about  now  which  seems  to  me 
so  impossible  and  unearthly  is  really  quite  an  ordi- 


198     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

nary  thing,"  thought  Ryabovitch,  looking  at  the 
clouds  of  dust  racing  after  the  general's  carriage. 
"  It's  all  very  ordinary,  and  every  one  goes  through 
it.  ...  That  general,  for  instance,  has  once  been  in 
love;  now  he  is  married  and  has  children.  Captain 
Vahter,  too,  is  married  and  beloved,  though  the  nape 
of  his  neck  is  very  red  and  ugly  and  he  has  no  waist. 
.  .  .  Salmanov  is  coarse  and  very  Tatar,  but  he  has 
had  a  love  affair  that  has  ended  in  marriage.  ...  I 
am  the  same  as  every  one  else,  and  I,  too,  shall  have 
the  same  experience  as  every  one  else,  sooner  or 
later.  .  .  ." 

And  the  thought  that  he  was  an  ordinary  person, 
and  that  his  life  was  ordinary,  delighted  him  and 
gave  him  courage.  He  pictured  her  and  his  happi- 
ness as  he  pleased,  and  put  no  rein  on  his  imagina- 
tion. .  .  . 

When  the  brigade  reached  their  halting-place  in 
the  evening,  and  the  officers  were  resting  in  their 
tents,  Ryabovitch,  Merzlyakov,  and  Lobytko  were 
sitting  round  a  box  having  supper.  Merzlyakov  ate 
without  haste,  and,  as  he  munched  deliberately,  read 
the  "  Vyestnik  Evropi,"  which  he  held  on  his  knees. 
Lobytko  talked  incessantly  and  kept  filling  up  his 
giass  with  beer,  and  Ryabovitch,  whose  head  was 
confused  from  dreaming  all  day  long,  drank  and  said 
nothing.  After  three  glasses  he  got  a  little  drunk. 


The  Kiss  199 

felt  weak,  and  had  an  irresistible  desire  to  impart  his 
new  sensations  to  his  comrades. 

"  A  strange  thing  happened  to  me  at  those  Von 
Rubbeks',"  he  began,  trying  to  put  an  indifferent 
and  ironical  tone  into  his  voice.  "  You  know  I 
went  into  the  billiard-room.  .  .  ." 

He  began  describing  very  minutely  the  incident  of 
the  kiss,  and  a  moment  later  relapsed  into  silence. 
...  In  the  course  of  that  moment  he  had  told  every- 
thing, and  it  surprised  him  dreadfully  to  find  how 
short  a  time  it  took  him  to  tell  it.  He  had  imagined 
that  he  could  have  been  telling  the  story  of  the  kiss 
till  next  morning.  Listening  to  him,  Lobytko,  who 
was  a  great  liar  and  consequently  believed  no  one, 
looked  at  him  sceptically  and  laughed.  Merzlyakov 
twitched  his  eyebrows  and,  without  removing  his 
eyes  from  the  "  Vyestnik  Evropi,"  said: 

"That's  an  odd  thing!  How  strange!  .  .  . 
throws  herself  on  a  man's  neck,  without  addressing 
him  by  name.  .  .  .  She  must  be  some  sort  of  hys- 
terical neurotic." 

'  Yes,  she  must,"  Ryabovitch  agreed. 

"  A  similar  thing  once  happened  to  me,"  said 
Lobytko,  assuming  a  scared  expression.  "  I  was 
going  last  year  to  Kovno.  ...  I  took  a  second-class 
ticket.  The  train  was  crammed,  and  it  was  impos- 
sible to  sleep.  I  gave  the  guard  half  a  rouble;  he 


200      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

took  my  luggage  and  led  me  to.  another  compart- 
ment. ...  I  lay  down  and  covered  myself  with  a 
rug.  ...  It  was  dark,  you  understand.  Suddenly 
I  felt  some  one  touch  me  on  the  shoulder  and  breathe 
in  my  face.  I  made  a  movement  with  my  hand  and 
felt  somebody's  elbow.  ...  I  opened  my  eyes  and 
only  imagine  —  a  woman.  Black  eyes,  lips  red  as  a 
prime  salmon,  nostrils  breathing  passionately  —  a 
bosom  like  a  buffer.  .  .  ." 

"  Excuse  me,"  Merzlyakov  interrupted  calmly, 
"  I  understand  about  the  bosom,  but  how  could  you 
see  the  lips  if  it  was  dark?  " 

Lobytko  began  trying  to  put  himself  right  and 
laughing  at  Merzlyakov's  unimaginativeness.  It 
made  Ryabovitch  wince.  He  walked  away  from  the 
box,  got  into  bed,  and  vowed  never  to  confide  again. 

Camp  life  began.  .  .  .  The  days  flowed  by,  one 
very  much  like  another.  All  those  days  Ryabovitch 
felt,  thought,  and  behaved  as  though  he  were  in 
love.  Every  morning  when  his  orderly  handed  him 
water  to  wash  with,  and  he  sluiced  his  head  with  cold 
water,  he  thought  there  was  something  warm  and 
delightful  in  his  life. 

In  the  evenings  when  his  comrades  began  talking 
of  love  and  women,  he  would  listen,  and  draw  up 
closer;  and  he  wore  the  expression  of  a  soldier  when 
he  hears  the  description  of  a  battle  in  which  he  has 
taken  part.  And  on  the  evenings  when  the  officers, 


The  Kiss  201 

out  on  the  spree  with  the  setter  —  Lobytko  —  at 
their  head,  made  Don  Juan  excursions  to  the 
"  suburb,"  and  Ryabovitch  took  part  in  such  excur- 
sions, he  always  was  sad,  felt  profoundly  guilty,  and 
inwardly  begged  her  forgiveness.  ...  In  hours  of 
leisure  or  on  sleepless  nights,  when  he  felt  moved 
to  recall  his  childhood,  his  father  and  mother  — 
everything  near  and  dear,  in  fact,  he  invariably 
thought  of  Myestetchki,  the  strange  horse,  Von 
Rabbek,  his  wife  who  was  like  the  Empress 
Eugenie,  the  dark  room,  the  crack  of  light  at  the 
door.  .  .  . 

On  the  thirty-first  of  August  he  went  back  from  the 
camp,  not  with  the  whole  brigade,  but  with  only  two 
batteries  of  it.  He  was  dreaming  and  excited  all  the 
way,  as  though  he  were  going  back  to  his  native 
place.  He  had  an  intense  longing  to  see  again  the 
strange  horse,  the  church,  the  insincere  family  of  the 
Von  Rabbeks,  the  dark  room.  The  "  inner  voice," 
which  so  often  deceives  lovers,  whispered  to  him  for 
some  reason  that  he  would  be  sure  to  see  her  .  .  . 
and  he  was  tortured  by  the  questions,  How  he  should 
meet  her?  What  he  would  talk  to  her  about? 
Whether  she  had  forgotten  the  kiss?  If  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  he  thought,  even  if  he  did  not 
meet  her,  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  him  merely  to 
go  through  the  dark  room  and  recall  the  past.  .  .  . 

Towards  evening  there  appeared  on  the  horizon 


202      The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

the  familiar  church  and  white  granaries.  Ryabo- 
vitch's  heart  beat.  .  .  .  He  did  not  hear  the  officer 
who  was  riding  beside  him  and  saying  something  to 
him,  he  forgot  everything,  and  looked  eagerly  at  the 
river  shining  in  the  distance,  at  the  roof  of  the 
house,  at  the  dovecote  round  which  the  pigeons  were 
circling  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun. 

When  they  reached  the  church  and  were  listening 
to  the  billeting  orders,  he  expected  every  second  that 
a  man  on  horseback  would  come  round  the  church 
enclosure  and  invite  the  officers  to  tea,  but  .  .  .  the 
billeting  orders  were  read,  the  officers  were  in  haste 
to  go  on  to  the  village,  and  the  man  on  horseback  did 
not  appear. 

"  Von  Rabbek  will  hear  at  once  from  the  peasants 
that  we  have  come  and  will  send  for  us,"  thought 
Ryabovitch,  as  he  went  into  the  hut,  unable  to  un- 
derstand why  a  comrade  was  lighting  a  candle  and 
why  the  orderlies  were  hurriedly  setting  samo- 
vars. .  .  . 

A  painful  uneasiness  took  possession  of  him.  He 
lay  down,  then  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
to  see  whether  the  messenger  were  coming.  But 
there  was  no  sign  of  him. 

He  lay  down  again,  but  half  an  hour  later  he  got 
up,  and,  unable  to  restrain  his  uneasiness,  went  into 
the  street  and  strode  towards  the  church.  It  was 
dark  and  deserted  in  the  square  near  the  church.  .  .  . 


The  Kiss  203 

Three  soldiers  were  standing  silent  in  a  row  where 
the  road  began  to  go  downhill.  Seeing  Ryabovitch, 
they  roused  themselves  and  saluted.  He  returned 
the  salute  and  began  to  go  down  the  familiar  path. 

On  the  further  side  of  the  river  the  whole  sky  was 
flooded  with  crimson:  the  moon  was  rising;  two 
peasant  women,  talking  loudly,  were  picking  cabbage 
in  the  kitchen  garden;  behind  the  kitchen  garden 
there  were  some  dark  huts.  .  .  .  And  everything  on 
the  near  side  of  the  river  was  just  as  it  had  been  in 
May:  the  path,  the  bushes,  the  willows  overhanging 
the  water  .  .  .  but  there  was  no  sound  of  the  brave 
nightingale,  and  no  scent  of  poplar  and  fresh  grass. 

Reaching  the  garden,  Ryabovitch  looked  in  at  the 
gate.  The  garden  was  dark  and  still.  .  .  .  He 
could  see  nothing  but  the  white  steins  of  the  nearest 
birch-trees  and  a  little  bit  of  the  avenue;  all  the  rest 
melted  together  into  a  dark  blur.  Ryabovitch 
looked  and  listened  eagerly,  but  after  waiting  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  without  hearing  a  sound  or  catch- 
ing a  glimpse  of  a  light,  he  trudged  back.  .  .  . 

He  went  down  to  the  river.  The  General's  bath- 
house and  the  bath-sheets  on  the  rail  of  the  little 
bridge  showed  white  before  him.  .  .  .  He  went  on 
to  the  bridge,  stood  a  little,  and,  quite  unnecessarily, 
touched  the  sheets.  They  felt  rough  and  cold.  He 
looked  down  at  the  water.  .  .  .  The  river  ran  rap- 
idly and  with  a  faintly  audible  gurgle  round  the  piles 


204     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

of  the  bath-house.  The  red  moon  was  reflected  near 
the  left  bank;  little  ripples  ran  over  the  reflection, 
stretching  it  out,  breaking  it  into  bits,  and  seemed 
trying  to  carry  it  away.  .  .  . 

"  How  stupid,  how  stupid!  "  thought  Ryabovitch, 
looking  at  the  running  water.  "  How  unintelligent 
it  all  is!" 

Now  that  he  expected  nothing,  the  incident  of  the 
kiss,  his  impatience,  his  vague  hopes  and  disappoint- 
ment, presented  themselves  in  a  clear  light.  It  no 
longer  seemed  to  him  strange  that  he  had  not  seen 
the  General's  messenger,  and  that  he  would  never  see 
the  girl  who  had  accidentally  kissed  him  instead  of 
some  one  else;  on  the  contrary,  it  would  have  been 
strange  if  he  had  seen  her.  .  .  . 

The  water  was  running,  he  knew  not  where  or 
why,  just  as  it  did  in  May.  In  May  it  had  flowed 
into  the  great  river,  from  the  great  river  into  the 
sea;  then  it  had  risen  in  vapour,  turned  into  rain, 
and  perhaps  the  very  same  water  was  running  now 
before  Ryabovitch's  eyes  again.  .  .  .  What  for? 
Why? 

And  the  whole  world,  the  whole  of  life,  seemed 
to  Ryabovitch  an  unintelligible,  aimless  jest.  .  .  . 
And  turning  his  eyes  from  the  water  and  looking  at 
the  sky,  he  remembered  again  how  fate  in  the  person 
of  an  unknown  woman  had  by  chance  caressed  him, 
he  remembered  his  summer  dreams  and  fancies,  and 


The  Kiss  205 

his  life  struck  him  as  extraordinarily  meagre,  pov- 
erty-stricken, and  colourless.  .  .  . 

When  he  went  back  to  his  hut  he  did  not  find  one 
of  his  comrades.  The  orderly  informed  him  that 
they  had  all  gone  to  "  General  von  Rabbek's,  who 
had  sent  a  messenger  on  horseback  to  invite 
them.  .  .  ." 

For  an  instant  there  was  a  flash  of  joy  in  Ryabo- 
vitch's  heart,  but  he  quenched  it  at  once,  got  into  bed, 
and  in  his  wrath  with  his  fate,  as  though  to  spite  it, 
did  not  go  to  the  General's. 


'ANNA  ON  THE  NECK' 


"  ANNA  ON  THE  NECK  " 

I 

AFTER  the  wedding  they  had  not  even  light  refresh- 
ments; the  happy  pair  simply  drank  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne, changed  into  their  travelling  things,  and 
drove  to  the  station.  Instead  of  a  gay  wedding  ball 
and  supper,  instead  of  music  and  dancing,  they  went 
on  a  journey  to  pray  at  a  shrine  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  away.  Many  people  commended  this,  saying 
that  Modest  Alexeitch  was  a  man  high  up  in  the 
service  and  no  longer  young,  and  that  a  noisy  wed- 
ding might  not  have  seemed  quite  suitable ;  and  music 
is  apt  to  sound  dreary  when  a  government  official  of 
fifty-two  marries  a  girl  who  is  only  just  eighteen. 
People  said,  too,  that  Modest  Alexeitch,  being  a 
man  of  principle,  had  arranged  this  visit  to  the  mon- 
astery expressly  in  order  to  make  his  young  bride 
realize  that  even  in  marriage  he  put  religion  and 
morality  above  everything. 

The  happy  pair  were  seen  off  at  the  station.  The 
crowd  of  relations  and  colleagues  in  the  service 
stood,  with  glasses  in  their  hands,  waiting  for  the 
train  to  start  to  shout  "  Hurrah !  "  and  the  bride's 


21O     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

father,  Pyotr  Leontyitch,  wearing  a  top-hat  and  the 
uniform  of  a  teacher,  already  drunk  and  very  pale, 
kept  craning  towards  the  window,  glass  in  hand  and 
saying  in  an  imploring  voice : 

"  Anyuta  !  Anya,  Anya  !  one  word !  " 
Anna  bent  out  of  the  window  to  him,  and  he  whis- 
pered something  to  her,  enveloping  her  in  a  stale 
smell  of  alcohol,  blew  into  her  ear  —  she  could  make 
out  nothing  —  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over 
her  face,  her  bosom,  and  her  hands;  meanwhile  he 
was  breathing  in  gasps  and  tears  were  shining  in  his 
eyes.  And  the  schoolboys,  Anna's  brothers,  Petya 
and  Andrusha,  pulled  at  his  coat  from  behind,  whis- 
pering in  confusion: 

"Father,  hush!  .  .  .  Father,  that's  enough.  .  .  ." 
When  the  train  started,  Anna  saw  her  father  run 
a  little  way  after  the  train,  staggering  and  spilling 
his  wine,  and  what  a  kind,  guilty,  pitiful  face  he  had: 
"  Hurra  —  ah  !  "  he  shouted. 
The  happy  pair  were  left  alone.     Modest  Alexe- 
itch  looked  about  the  compartment,  arranged  their 
things  on  the  shelves,  and  sat  down,  smiling,  opposite 
his   young  wife.     He   was   an   official   of   medium 
height,  rather  stout  and  puffy,  who  looked  exceed- 
ingly well   nourished,   with   long  whiskers   and   no 
moustache.     His   clean-shaven,   round,   sharply   de- 
fined chin  looked  like  the  heel  of  a  foot.     The  most 
characteristic  point  in  his  face  was  the  absence  of 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  211 

moustache,  the  bare,  freshly  shaven  place,  which 
gradually  passed  into  the  fat  cheeks,  quivering  like 
jelly.  His  deportment  was  dignified,  his  movements 
were  deliberate,  his  manner  was  soft. 

"  I  cannot  help  remembering  now  one  circum- 
stance," he  said,  smiling.  '  When,  five  years  ago, 
Kosorotov  received  the  order  of  St.  Anna  of  the 
second  grade,  and  went  to  thank  His  Excellency,  His 
Excellency  expressed  himself  as  follows :  '  So  now 
you  have  three  Annas:  one  in  your  buttonhole  and 
two  on  your  neck.'  And  it  must  be  explained  that 
at  that  time  Kosorotov's  wife,  a  quarrelsome  and 
frivolous  person,  had  just  returned  to  him,  and  that 
her  name  was  Anna.  I  trust  that  when  I  receive 
the  Anna  of  the  second  grade  His  Excellency  will 
not  have  occasion  to  say  the  same  thing  to  me." 

He  smiled  with  his  little  eyes.  And  she,  too, 
smiled,  troubled  at  the  thought  that  at  any  moment 
this  man  might  kiss  her  with  his  thick  damp  lips, 
and  that  she  had  no  right  to  prevent  his  doing  so. 
The  soft  movements  of  his  fat  person  frightened 
her;  she  felt  both  fear  and  disgust.  He  got  up, 
without  haste  took  off  the  order  from  his  neck,  took 
off  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  put  on  his  dressing- 
gown. 

"  That's  better,"  he  said,  sitting  down  beside 
Anna. 

Anna  remembered  what  agony  the  wedding  had 


212     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

been,  when  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  the  priest,  and 
the  guests,  and  every  one  in  church  had  been  looking 
at  her  sorrowfully  and  asking  why,  why  was  she, 
such  a  sweet,  nice  girl,  marrying  such  an  elderly, 
uninteresting  gentleman.  Only  that  morning  she 
was  delighted  that"  everything  had  been  satisfactorily 
arranged,  but  at  the  time  of  the  wedding,  and  now 
in  the  railway  carnage,  she  felt  cheated,  guilty,  and 
ridiculous.  Here  she  had  married  a  rich  man  and 
yet  she  had  no  money,  her  wedding-dress  had  been 
bought  on  credit,  and  when  her  father  and  brothers 
had  been  saying  good-bye,  she  could  see  from  their 
faces  that  they  had  not  a  farthing.  Would  they 
have  any  supper  that  day?  And  tomorrow?  And 
for  some  reason  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  father  and 
the  boys  were  sitting  tonight  hungry  without  her, 
and  feeling  the  same  misery  as  they  had  the  day  after 
their  mother's  funeral. 

"  Oh,  how  unhappy  I  am !  "  she  thought.  ;'  Why 
am  I  so  unhappy?  " 

With  the  awkwardness  of  a  man  with  settled  hab- 
its, unaccustomed  to  deal  with  women,  Modest 
Alexeitch  touched  her  on  the  waist  and  patted  her  on 
the  shoulder,  while  she  went  on  thinking  about 
money,  about  her  mother  and  her  mother's  death. 
When  her  mother  died,  her  father,  Pyotr  Leontyitch, 
a  teacher  of  drawing  and  writing  in  the  high  school, 
had  taken  to  drink,  impoverishment  had  followed, 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  213 

the  boys  had  not  had  boots  or  goloshes,  their  father 
had  been  hauled  up  before  the  magistrate,  the  war- 
rant officer  had  come  and  made  an  inventory  of  the 
furniture.  .  .  .  What  a  disgrace!  Anna  had  had 
to  look  after  her  drunken  father,  darn  her  brothers' 
stockings,  go  to  market,  and  when  she  was  compli- 
mented on  her  youth,  her  beauty,  and  her  elegant 
manners,  it  seemed  to  her  that  every  one  was  looking 
at  her  cheap  hat  and  the  holes  in  her  boots  that  were 
inked  over.  And  at  night  there  had  been  tears  and 
a  haunting  dread  that  her  father  would  soon,  very 
soon,  be  dismissed  from  the  school  for  his  weakness, 
and  that  he  would  not  survive  it,  but  would  die,  too, 
like  their  mother.  But  ladies  of  their  acquaintance 
had  taken  the  matter  in  hand  and  looked  about  for  a 
good  match  for  Anna.  This  Modest  Alexevitch, 
who  was  neither  young  nor  good-looking  but  had 
money,  was  soon  found.  He  had  a  hundred  thou- 
sand in  the  bank  and  the  family  estate,  which  he  had 
let  on  lease.  He  was  a  man  of  principle  and  stood 
well  with  His  Excellency ;  it  would  be  nothing  to  him, 
so  they  told  Anna,  to  get  a  note  from  His  Excellency 
to  the  directors  of  the  high  school,  or  even  to  the 
Education  Commissioner,  to  prevent  Pyotr  Leon- 
tyitch  from  being  dismissed. 

While  she  was  recalling  these  details,  she  sud- 
denly heard  strains  of  music  which  floated  in  at  the 
window,  together  with  the  sound  of  voices.  The 


214     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

train  was  stopping  at  a  station.  In  the  crowd  b(»- 
yond  the  platform  an  accordion  and  a  cheap  squeaky 
fiddle  were  being  briskly  played,  and  the  sound  of  a 
military  band  came  from  beyond  the  villas  and  the 
tall  birches  and  poplars  that  lay  bathed  in  the  moon- 
light; there  must  have  been  a  dance  in  the  place. 
Summer  visitors  and  townspeople,  who  used  to  come 
out  here  by  train  in  fine  weather  for  a  breath  of  fresh 
air,  were  parading  up  and  down  on  the  platform. 
Among  them  was  the  wealthy  owner  of  all  the  sum- 
mer villas  —  a  tall,  stout,  dark  man  called  Artynov. 
He  had  prominent  eyes  and  looked  like  an  Armenian. 
He  wore  a  strange  costume;  his  shirt  was  unbut- 
toned, showing  his  chest;  he  wore  high  boots  with 
spurs,  and  a  black  cloak  hung  from  his  shoulders  and 
dragged  on  the  ground  like  a  train.  Two  boar- 
hounds  followed  him  with  their  sharp  noses  to  the 
ground. 

Tears  were  still  shining  in  Anna's  eyes,  but  she 
was  not  thinking  now  of  her  mother,  nor  of  money, 
nor  of  her  marriage;  but  shaking  hands  with  school- 
boys and  officers  she  knew,  she  laughed  gaily  and 
said  quickly: 

"  How  do  you  do?     How  are  you?" 

She  went  out  on  to  the  platform  between  the  car- 
riages into  the  moonlight,  and  stood  so  that  they 
could  all  see  her  in  her  new  splendid  dress  and  hat. 

"  Why  are  we  stopping  here?  "  she  asked. 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  215 

"This  is  a  junction.  They  are  waiting  for  the 
mail  train  to  pass." 

Seeing  that  Artynov  was  looking  at  her,  she 
screwed  up  her  eyes  coquettishly  and  began  talking 
aloud  in  French;  and  because  her  voice  sounded  so 
pleasant,  and  because  she  heard  music  and  the  moon 
was  reflected  in  the  pond,  and  because  Artynov,  the 
notorious  Don  Juan  and  spoiled  child  of  fortune,  was 
looking  at  her  eagerly  and  with  curiosity,  and  be- 
cause every  one  was  in  good  spirits  —  she  suddenly 
felt  joyful,  and  when  the  train  started  and  the  offi- 
cers of  her  acquaintance  saluted  her,  she  was  hum- 
ming the  polka  the  strains  of  which  reached  her  from 
the  military  band  playing  beyond  the  trees;  and  she 
returned  to  her  compartment  feeling  as  though  it 
had  been  proved  to  her  at  the  station  that  she  would 
certainly  be  happy  in  spite  of  everything. 

The  happy  pair  spent  two  days  at  the  monastery, 
then  went  back  to  town.  They  lived  in  a  rent-free 
flat.  When  Modest  Alexevitch  had  gone  to  the 
office,  Anna  played  the  piano,  or  shed  tears  of  de- 
pression, or  lay  down  on  a  couch  and  read  novels  or 
looked  through  fashion  papers.  At  dinner  Modest 
Alexevitch  ate  a  great  deal  and  talked  about  poli- 
tics, about  appointments,  transfers,  and  promotions 
in  the  service,  about  the  necessity  of  hard  work,  and 
said  that,  family  life  not  being  a  pleasure  but  a  duty, 
if  you  took  care  of  the  kopecks  the  roubles  would 


216     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

take  care  of  themselves,  and  that  he  put  religion  and 
morality  before  everything  else  in  the  world.  And 
holding  his  knife  in  his  fist  as  though  it  were  a  sword, 
he  would  say: 

"  Every  one  ought  to  have  his  duties !  " 
And  Anna  listened  to  him,  was  frightened,  and 
could  not  eat,  and  she  usually  got  up  from  the  table 
hungry.  After  dinner  her  husband  lay  down  for  a 
nap  and  snored  loudly,  while  Anna  went  to  see  her 
own  people.  Her  father  and  the  boys  looked  at  her 
in  a  peculiar  way,  as  though  just  before  she  came  in 
they  had  been  blaming  her  for  having  married  for 
money  a  tedious,  wearisome  man  she  did  not  love; 
her  rustling  skirts,  her  bracelets,  and  her  general  air 
of  a  married  lady,  offended  them  and  made  them  un- 
comfortable. In  her  presence  they  felt  a  little  em- 
barrassed and  did  not  know  what  to  talk  to  her 
about ;  but  yet  they  still  loved  her  as  before,  and  were 
not  used  to  having  dinner  without  her.  She  sat 
down  with  them  to  cabbage  soup,  porridge,  and  fried 
potatoes,  smelling  of  mutton  dripping.  Pyotr 
Leontyitch  filled  his  glass  from  the  decanter  with  a 
trembling  hand  and  drank  it  off  hurriedly,  greedily, 
with  repulsion,  then  poured  out  a  second  glass  and 
then  a  third.  Petya  and  Andrusha,  thin,  pale  boys 
with  big  eyes,  would  take  the  decanter  and  say  des- 
perately: 

"  You  mustn't,  father.  .  .  .  Enough,  father.  .  .  ." 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  217 

And  Anna,  too,  was  troubled  and  entreated  him  to 
drink  no  more;  and  he  would  suddenly  fly  into  a  rage 
and  beat  the  table  with  his  fists: 

"  I  won't  allow  any  one  to  dictate  to  me!  "  he 
would  shout.  "Wretched  boys!  wretched  girl! 
I'll  turn  you  all  out!  " 

But  there  was  a  note  of  weakness,  of  good-nature 
in  his  voice,  and  no  one  was  afraid  of  him.  After 
dinner  he  usually  dressed  in  his  best.  Pale,  with  a 
cut  on  his  chin  from  shaving,  craning  his  thin  neck, 
he  would  stand  for  half  an  hour  before  the  glass, 
prinking,  combing  his  hair,  twisting  his  black  mous- 
tache, sprinkling  himself  with  scent,  tying  his  cravat 
in  a  bow;  then  he  would  put  on  his  gloves  and  his  top- 
hat,  and  go  off  to  give  his  private  lessons.  Or  if  it 
was  a  holiday  he  would  stay  at  home  and  paint,  or 
play  the  harmonium,  which  wheezed  and  growled; 
he  would  try  to  wrest  from  it  pure  harmonious 
sounds  and  would  sing  to  it;  or  would  storm  at  the 
boys: 

"Wretches!  Good-for-nothing  boys !  You  have 
spoiled  the  instrument!  " 

In  the  evening  Anna's  husband  played  cards  with 
his  colleagues,  who  lived  under  the  same  roof  in  the 
government  quarters.  The  wives  of  these  gentle- 
men would  come  in  —  ugly,  tastelessly  dressed 
women,  as  coarse  as  cooks  —  and  gossip  would  begin 
in  the  flat  ~s  tasteless  and  unattractive  as  the  ladies 


218     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

themselves.  Sometimes  Modest  Alexevitch  would 
take  Anna  to  the  theatre.  In  the  intervals  he  would 
never  let  her  stir  a  step  from  his  side,  but  walked 
about  arm  in  arm  with  her  through  the  corridors  and 
the  foyer.  When  he  bowed  to  some  one,  he  imme- 
diately whispered  to  Anna:  "A  civil  councillor 
.  .  .  visits  at  His  Excellency's";  or,  "  A  man  of 
means  .  .  .  has  a  house  of  his  own."  When  they 
passed  the  buffet  Anna  had  a  great  longing  for  some- 
thing sweet;  she  was  fond  of  chocolate  and  apple 
cakes,  but  she  had  no  money,  and  she  did  not  like  to 
ask  her  husband.  He  would  take  a  pear,  pinch  it 
with  his  fingers,  and  ask  uncertainly: 

"How  much?" 

'  Twenty-five  kopecks!  " 

"  I  say!  "  he  would  reply,  and  put  it  down;  but 
as  it  was  awkward  to  leave  the  buffet  without  buying 
anything,  he  would  order  some  seltzer-water  and 
drink  the  whole  bottle  himself,  and  tears  would  come 
into  his  eyes.  And  Anna  hated  him  at  such  times. 

And  suddenly  flushing  crimson,  he  would  say  to 
her  rapidly: 

"Bow  to  that  old  lady!" 

"  But  I  don't  know  her." 

"  No  matter.  That's  the  wife  of  the  director  of 
the  local  treasury!  Bow,  I  tell  you,"  he  would 
grumble  insistently.  "  Your  head  won't  drop  off." 

Anna  bowed  and  her  head  certainly  did  not  drop 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  219 

off,  but  it  was  agonizing.  She  did  everything  her 
husband  wanted  her  to,  and  was  furious  with  her- 
self for  having  let  him  deceive  her  like  the  veriest 
idiot.  She  had  only  married  him  for  his  money,  and 
yet  she  had  less  money  now  than  before  her  mar- 
riage. In  old  days  her  father  would  sometimes  give 
her  twenty  kopecks,  but  now  she  had  not  a  farthing. 
To  take  money  by  stealth  or  ask  for  it,  she  could  not ; 
she  was  afraid  of  her  husband,  she  trembled  before 
him.  She  felt  as  though  she  had  been  afraid  of  him 
for  years.  In  her  childhood  the  director  of  the 
high  school  had  always  seemed  the  most  impressive 
and  terrifying  force  in  the  world,  sweeping  down 
like  a  thunderstorm  or  a  steam-engine  ready  to  crush 
her;  another  similar  force  of  which  the  whole  family 
talked,  and  of  which  they  were  for  some  reason 
afraid,  was  His  Excellency;  then  there  were  a  dozen 
others,  less  formidable,  and  among  them  the  teachers 
at  the  high  school,  with  shaven  upper  lips,  stern, 
implacable;  and  now  finally,  there  was  Modest 
Alexeitch,  a  man  of  principle,  who  even  resembled 
the  director  in  the  face.  And  in  Anna's  imagina- 
tion all  these  forces  blended  together  into  one,  and, 
in  the  form  of  a  terrible,  huge  white  bear,  menaced 
the  weak  and  erring  such  as  her  father.  And  she 
was  afraid  to  say  anything  in  opposition  to  her  hus- 
band, and  gave  a  forced  smile,  and  tried  to  make  a 
show  of  pleasure  when  she  was  coarsely  caressed 


220     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

and  defiled  by  embraces   that   excited  her   terror. 

Only  once  Pyotr  Leontyitch  had  the  temerity  to 
ask  for  a  loan  of  fifty  roubles  in  order  to  pay  some 
very  irksome  debt,  but  what  an  agony  it  had  been ! 

'Very  good;  I'll  give  it  to  you,"  said  Modest 
Alexeitch  after  a  moment's  thought;  "but  I  warn 
you  I  won't  help  you  again  till  you  give  up  drink- 
ing. Such  a  failing  is  disgraceful  in  a  man  in  the 
government  service  !  I  must  remind  you  of  the  well- 
known  fact  that  many  capable  people  have  been 
ruined  by  that  passion,  though  they  might  possibly, 
with  temperance,  have  risen  in  time  to  a  very  high 
position." 

And  long-winded  phrases  followed:  "inasmuch 
as  .  .  .,""  following  upon  which  proposition  .  .  .," 
"in  view  of  the  aforesaid  contention  .  .  .";  and 
Pyotr  Leontyitch  was  in  agonies  of  humiliation  and 
felt  an  intense  craving  for  alcohol. 

And  when  the  boys  came  to  visit  Anna,  generally 
in  broken  boots  and  threadbare  trousers,  they,  too, 
had  to  listen  to  sermons. 

"Every  man  ought  to  have  his  duties!"  Mod- 
est Alexeitch  would  say  to  them. 

And  he  did  not  give  them  money.  But  he  did 
give  Anna  bracelets,  rings,  and  brooches,  saying 
that  these  things  would  come  in  useful  for  a  rainy 
day.  And  he  often  unlocked  her  drawer  and  made 
an  inspection  to  see  whether  they  were  all  safe. 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  221 

II 

Meanwhile  winter  came  on.  Long  before  Christ- 
mas there  was  an  announcement  in  the  local  papers 
that  the  usual  winter  ball  would  take  place  on  the 
twenty-ninth  of  December  in  the  Hall  of  Nobility. 
Every  evening  after  cards  Modest  Alexeitch  was 
excitedly  whispering  with  his  colleagues'  wives  and 
glancing  at  Anna,  and  then  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  for  a  long  while,  thinking.  At  last,  late  one 
evening,  he  stood  still,  facing  Anna,  and  said: 

"  You  ought  to  get  yourself  a  ball  dress.  Do 
you  understand?  Only  please  consult  Marya  Gri- 
goryevna  and  Natalya  Kuzminishna." 

And  he  gave  her  a  hundred  roubles.  She  took 
the  money,  but  she  did  not  consult  any  one  when 
she  ordered  the  ball  dress;  she  spoke  to  no  one  but 
her  father,  and  tried  to  imagine  how  her  mother 
would  have  dressed  for  a  ball.  Her  mother  had 
always  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion  and  had  always 
taken  trouble  over  Anna,  dressing  her  elegantly 
like  a  doll,  and  had  taught  her  to  speak  French 
and  dance  the  mazurka  superbly  (she  had  been  a 
governess  for  five  years  before  her  marriage). 
Like  her  mother,  Anna  could  make  a  new  dress  out 
of  an  old  one,  clean  gloves  with  benzine,  hire  jew- 
els; and,  like  her  mother,  she  knew  how  to  screw 
up  her  eyes,  lisp,  assume  graceful  attitudes,  fly  into 


222     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

raptures  when  necessary,  and  throw  a  mournful  and 
enigmatic  look  into  her  eyes.  And  from  her  fa- 
ther she  had  inherited  the  dark  colour  of  her  hair 
and  eyes,  her  highly-strung  nerves,  and  the  habit  of 
always  making  herself  look  her  best. 

When,  half  an  hour  before  setting  off  for  the  ball, 
Modest  Alexeitch  went  into  her  room  without  his 
coat  on,  to  put  his  order  round  his  neck  before  her 
pier-glass,  dazzled  by  her  beauty  and  the  splendour 
of  her  fresh,  ethereal  dress,  he  combed  his  whiskers 
complacently  and  said: 

"  So  that's  what  my  wife  can  look  like  ...  so 
that's  what  you  can  look  like !  Anyuta !  "  he  went 
on,  dropping  into  a  tone  of  solemnity,  "  I  have  made 
your  fortune,  and  now  I  beg  you  to  do  something  for 
mine.  I  beg  you  to  get  introduced  to  the  wife  of 
His  Excellency!  For  God's  sake,  do!  Through 
her  I  may  get  the  post  of  senior  reporting  clerk !  " 

They  went  to  the  ball.  They  reached  the  Hall 
of  Nobility,  the  entrance  with  the  hall  porter.  They 
came  to  the  vestibule  with  the  hat-stands,  the  fur 
coats;  footmen  scurrying  about,  and  ladies  with  low 
necks  putting  up  their  fans  to  screen  themselves  from 
the  draughts.  There  was  a  smell  of  gas  and  of 
soldiers.  When  Anna,  walking  upstairs  on  her  hus- 
band's arm,  heard  the  music  and  saw  herself  full 
length  in  the  looking-glass  in  the  full  glow  of  the 
lights,  there  was  a  rush  of  joy  in  her  heart,  and  she 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  223 

felt  the  same  presentiment  of  happiness  as  in  the 
moonlight  at  the  station.  She  walked  in  proudly, 
confidently,  for  the  first  time  feeling  herself  not  a 
girl  but  a  lady,  and  unconsciously  imitating  her 
mother  in  her  walk  and  in  her  manner.  And  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  rich  and  free.  Even 
her  husband's  presence  did  not  oppress  her,  for  as 
she  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  hall  she  had  guessed 
instinctively  that  the  proximity  of  an  old  husband  did 
not  detract  from  her  in  the  least,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, gave  her  that  shade  of  piquant  mystery  that 
is  so  attractive  to  men.  The  orchestra  was  already 
playing  and  the  dances  had  begun.  After  their  flat 
Anna  was  overwhelmed  by  the  lights,  the  bright  col- 
ours, the  music,  the  noise,  and  looking  round  the 
room,  thought,  "Oh,  how  lovely!"  She  at  once 
distinguished  in  the  crowd  all  her  acquaintances, 
every  one  she  had  met  before  at  parties  or  on  picnics 
—  all  the  officers,  the  teachers,  the  lawyers,  the  offi- 
cials, the  landowners,  His  Excellency,  Artynov,  and 
the  ladies  of  the  highest  standing,  dressed  up  and 
very  decolleteest  handsome  and  ugly,  who  had  al- 
ready taken  up  their  positions  in  the  stalls  and  pa- 
vilions of  the  charity  bazaar,  to  begin  selling  things 
for  the  benefit  of  the  poor.  A  huge  officer  in  epau- 
lettes —  she  had  been  introduced  to  him  in  Staro- 
Kievsky  Street  when  she  was  a  schoolgirl,  but  now 
she  could  not  remember  his  name  —  seemed  to 


224     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

spring  from  out  of  the  ground,  begging  her  for  a 
waltz,  and  she  flew  away  from  her  husband,  feeling 
as  though  she  were  floating  away  in  a  sailing-boat 
in  a  violent  storm,  while  her  husband  was  left  far 
away  on  the  shore.  She  danced  passionately,  with 
fervour,  a  waltz,  then  a  polka  and  a  quadrille,  being 
snatched  by  one  partner  as  soon  as  she  was  left  by 
another,  dizzy  with  music  and  the  noise,  mixing 
Russian  with  French,  lisping,  laughing,  and  with  no 
thought  of  her  husband  or  anything  else.  She  ex- 
cited great  admiration  among  the  men  —  that  was 
evident,  and  indeed  it  could  not  have  been  otherwise; 
she  was  breathless  with  excitement,  felt  thirsty,  and 
convulsively  clutched  her  fan.  Pyotr  Leontyitch, 
her  father,  in  a  crumpled  dress-coat  that  smelt  of 
benzine,  came  up  to  her,  offering  her  a  plate  of  pink 
ice. 

'  You  are  enchanting  this  evening,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  her  rapturously,  "  and  I  have  never  so  much 
regretted  that  you  were  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  mar- 
ried. .  .  .  What  was  it  for?  I  know  you  did  it  for 
our  sake,  but  .  .  ."  With  a  shaking  hand  he  drew 
out  a  roll  of  notes  and  said:  "  I  got  the  money  for 
my  lessons  today,  and  can  pay  your  husband  what  I 
owe  him." 

She  put  the  plate  back  into  his  hand,  and  was 
pounced  upon  by  some  one  and  borne  off  to  a  dis- 
tance. She  caught  a  glimpse  over  her  partner's 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  225 

shoulder  of  her  father  gliding  over  the  floor,  putting 
his  arm  round  a  lady  and  whirling  down  the  ball- 
room with  her. 

"How  sweet  he  is  when  he  is  sober!"  she 
thought. 

She  danced  the  mazurka  with  the  same  huge  offi- 
cer; he  moved  gravely,  as  heavily  as  a  dead  carcase 
in  a  uniform,  twitched  his  shoulders  and  his  chest, 
stamped  his  feet  very  languidly  —  he  felt  fearfully 
disinclined  to  dance.  She  fluttered  round  him,  pro- 
voking him  by  her  beauty,  her  bare  neck;  her  eyes 
glowed  defiantly,  her  movements  were  passionate, 
while  he  became  more  and  more  indifferent,  and  held 
out  his  hands  to  her  as  graciously  as  a  king. 

"  Bravo,  bravo !  "  said  people  watching  them. 

But  11  tie  by  little  the  huge  officer,  too,  broke 
out;  he  grew  lively,  excited,  and,  overcome  by  her 
fascination,  was  carried  away  and  danced  lightly, 
youthfully,  while  she  merely  moved  her  shoulders 
and  looked  slyly  at  him  as  though  she  were  now 
the  queen  and  he  were  her  slave;  and  at  that  mo- 
ment it  seemed  to  her  that  the  whole  room  was 
looking  at  them,  and  that  everybody  was  thrilled 
and  envied  them.  The  huge  officer  had  hardly  had 
time  to  thank  her  for  the  dance,  when  the  crowd 
suddenly  parted  and  the  men  drew  themselves  up 
in  a  strange  way,  with  their  hands  at  their  sides. 
His  Excellency,  with  two  stars  on  his  dress-coat,  was 


226     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

walking  up  to  her.  Yes,  His  Excellency  was  walk- 
ing straight  towards  her,  for  he  was  staring  directly 
at  her  with  a  sugary  smile,  while  he  licked  his  lips 
as  he  always  did  when  he  saw  a  pretty  woman. 

"  Delighted,  delighted  .  .  ."  he  began.  "  I  shall 
order  your  husband  to  be  clapped  in  a  lock-up  for 
keeping  such  a  treasure  hidden  from  us  till  now. 
I've  come  to  you  with  a  message  from  my  wife,"  he 
went  on,  offering  her  his  arm.  '  You  must  help 
us.  ...  M-m-yes.  .  .  .  We  ought  to  give  you  the 
prize  for  beauty  as  they  do  in  America.  .  .  . 
M-m-yes.  .  .  .  The  Americans.  .  .  .  My  wife  is 
expecting  you  impatiently." 

He  led  her  to  a  stall  and  presented  her  to  a  mid- 
dle-aged lady,  the  lower  part  of  whose  face  was  dis- 
proportionately large,  so  that  she  looked  as  though 
she  were  holding  a  big  stone  in  her  mouth. 

"  You  must  help  us,"  she  said  through  her  nose 
in  a  sing-song  voice.  "  All  the  pretty  women  are 
working  for  our  charity  bazaar,  and  you  are  the 
only  one  enjoying  yourself.  Why  won't  you  help 
us?" 

She  went  away,  and  Anna  took  her  place  by  the 
cups  and  the  silver  samovar.  She  was  soon  doing 
a  lively  trade.  Anna  asked  no  less  than  a  rouble 
for  a  cup  of  tea,  and  made  the  huge  officer  drink 
three  cups.  Artynov,  the  rich  man  with  prominent 
eyes,  who  suffered  from  asthma,  came  up,  too;  he 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  227 

was  not  dressed  in  the  strange  costume  in  which 
Anna  had  seen  him  in  the  summer  at  the  station,  but 
wore  a  dress-coat  like  every  one  else.  Keeping  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Anna,  he  drank  a  glass  of  champagne 
and  paid  a  hundred  roubles  for  it,  then  drank  some 
tea  and  gave  another  hundred  —  all  this  without 
saying  a  word,  as  he  was  short  of  breath  through 
asthma.  .  .  .  Anna  invited  purchasers  and  got 
money  out  of  them,  firmly  convinced  by  now  that  her 
smiles  and  glances  could  not  fail  to  afford  these  peo- 
ple great  pleasure.  She  realized  now  that  she  was 
created  exclusively  for  this  noisy,  brilliant,  laughing 
life,  with  its  music,  its  dancers,  its  adorers,  and  her 
old  terror  of  a  force  that  was  sweeping  down  upon 
her  and  menacing  to  crush  her  seemed  to  her  ridicu- 
lous: she  was  afraid  of  no  one  now,  and  only  re- 
gretted that  her  mother  could  not  be  there  to  rejoice 
at  her  success. 

Pyotr  Leontyitch,  pale  by  now  but  still  steady 
on  his  legs,  came  up  to  the  stall  and  asked  for  a 
glass  of  brandy.  Anna  turned  crimson,  expecting 
him  to  say  something  inappropriate  (she  was  al- 
ready ashamed  of  having  such  a  poor  and  ordinary 
father)  ;  but  he  emptied  his  glass,  took  ten  roubles 
out  of  his  roll  of  notes,  flung  it  down,  and  walked 
away  with  dignity  without  uttering  a  word.  A 
little  later  she  saw  him  dancing  in  the  grand  chain, 
and  by  now  he  was  staggering  and  kept  shouting 


228     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

something,  to  the  great  confusion  of  his  partner; 
and  Anna  remembered  how  at  the  ball  three  years 
before  he  had  staggered  and  shouted  in  the  same 
way,  and  it  had  ended  in  the  police-sergeant's  tak- 
ing him  home  to  bed,  and  next  day  the  director  had 
threatened  to  dismiss  him  from  his  post.  How  in- 
appropriate that  memory  was! 

When  the  samovars  were  put  out  in  the  stalls 
and  the  exhausted  ladies  handed  over  their  takings 
to  the  middle-aged  lady  with  the  stone  in  her  mouth, 
Artynov  took  Anna  on  his  arm  to  the  hall  where 
supper  was  served  to  all  who  had  assisted  at  the 
bazaar.  There  were  some  twenty  people  at  supper, 
not  more,  but  it  was  very  noisy.  His  Excellency 
proposed  a  toast: 

"  In  this  magnificent  dining-room  it  will  be  appro- 
priate to  drink  to  the  success  of  the  cheap  dining- 
rooms,  which  are  the  object  of  today's  bazaar." 

The  brigadier-general  proposed  the  toast:  '  To 
the  power  by  which  even  the  artillery  is  vanquished," 
and  all  the  company  clinked  glasses  with  the  ladies. 
It  was  very,  very  gay. 

When  Anna  was  escorted  home  it  was  daylight 
and  the  cooks  were  going  to  market.  Joyful,  in- 
toxicated, full  of  new  sensations,  exhausted,  she 
undressed,  dropped  into  bed,  and  at  once  fell 
asleep.  .  .  . 

It  was  past  one  in  the  afternoon  when  the  serv- 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  229 

ant  waked  her  and  announced  that  M.  Artynov  had 
called.  She  dressed  quickly  and  went  down  into 
the  drawing-room.  Soon  after  Artynov,  His  Ex- 
cellency called  to  thank  her  for  her  assistance  in  the 
bazaar.  With  a  sugary  smile,  chewing  his  lips,  he 
kissed  her  hand,  and  asking  her  permission  to  come 
again,  took  his  leave,  while  she  remained  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  drawing-room,  amazed,  en- 
chanted, unable  to  believe  that  this  change  in  her 
life,  this  marvellous  change,  had  taken  place  so 
quickly;  and  at  that  moment  Modest  Alexeitch 
walked  in  ...  and  he,  too,  stood  before  her  now 
with  the  same  ingratiating,  sugary,  cringingly  re- 
spectful expression  which  she  was  accustomed  to  see 
on  his  face  in  the  presence  of  the  great  and  powerful; 
and  with  rapture,  with  indignation,  with  contempt, 
convinced  that  no  harm  would  come  to  her  from  it, 
she  said,  articulating  distinctly  each  word: 

"Be  off,  you  blockhead!" 

From  this  time  forward  Anna  never  had  one  day 
free,  as  she  was  always  taking  part  in  picnics,  expe- 
ditions, performances.  She  returned  home  every 
day  after  midnight,  and  went  to  bed  on  the  floor  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  afterwards  used  to  tell  every 
one,  touchingly,  how  she  slept  under  flowers.  She 
needed  a  very  great  deal  of  money,  but  she  was  no 
longer  afraid  of  Modest  Alexeitch,  and  spent  his 
money  as  though  it  were  her  own;  and  she  did  not 


230     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

ask,  did  not  demand  it,  simply  sent  him  in  the  bills. 
"  Give  bearer  two  hundred  roubles,"  or  "  Pay  one 
hundred  roubles  at  once." 

At  Easter  Modest  Alexeitch  received  the  Anna 
of  the  second  grade.  When  he  went  to  offer  his 
thanks,  His  Excellency  put  aside  the  paper  he  was 
reading  and  settled  himself  more  comfortably  in  his 
chair. 

"  So  now  you  have  three  Annas,"  he  said,  scru- 
tinizing his  white  hands  and  pink  nails  — "  one  on 
your  buttonhole  and  two  on  your  neck." 

Modest  Alexeitch  put  two  fingers  to  his  lips  as  a 
precaution  against  laughing  too  loud  and  said: 

"  Now  I  have  only  to  look  forward  to  the  arrival 
of  a  little  Vladimir.  I  make  bold  to  beg  your  Ex- 
cellency to  stand  godfather." 

He  was  alluding  to  Vladimir  of  the  fourth  grade, 
and  was  already  imagining  how  he  would  tell  every- 
where the  story  of  this  pun,  so  happy  in  its  readi- 
ness and  audacity,  and  he  wanted  to  say  something 
equally  happy,  but  His  Excellency  was  buried  again 
in  his  newspaper,  and  merely  gave  him  a  nod. 

And  Anna  went  on  driving  about  with  three 
horses,  going  out  hunting  with  Artynov,  playing  in 
one-act  dramas,  going  out  to  supper,  and  was  more 
and  more  rarely  with  her  own  family;  they  dined 
now  alone.  Pyotr  Leontyitch  was  drinking  more 
heavily  than  ever;  there  was  no  money,  and  the  har- 


"Anna  on  the  Neck"  231 

monium  had  been  sold  long  ago  for  debt.  The  boys 
did  not  let  him  go  out  alone  in  the  street  now,  but 
looked  after  him  for  fear  he  might  fall  down;  and 
whenever  they  met  Anna  driving  in  Staro-Kievsky 
Street  with  a  pair  of  horses  and  Artynov  on  the 
box  instead  of  a  coachman,  Pyotr  Leontyitch  took 
off  his  top-hat,  and  was  about  to  shout  to  her,  but 
Petya  and  Andrusha  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  said 
imploringly : 

"  You  mustn't,  father.     Hush,  father!  " 


THE  TEACHER  OF  LITERATURE 


THE  TEACHER  OF  LITERATURE 
I 

THERE  was  the  thud  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  wooden 
floor;  they  brought  out  of  the  stable  the  black  horse, 
Count  Nulin;  then  the  white,  Giant;  then  his  sister 
Maika.  They  were  all  magnificent,  expensive 
horses.  Old  Shelestov  saddled  Giant  and  said,  ad- 
dressing his  daughter  Masha: 

"  Well,  Marie  Godefroi,  come,  get  on !    Hopla !  " 

Masha  Shelestov  was  the  youngest  of  the  family; 
she  was  eighteen,  but  her  family  could  not  get  used 
to  thinking  that  she  was  not  a  little  girl,  and  so  they 
still  called  her  Manya  and  Manyusa;  and  after  there 
had  been  a  circus  in  the  town  which  she  had  eagerly 
visited,  every  one  began  to  call  her  Marie  Gode- 
froi. 

"  Hop-la!  "  she  cried,  mounting  Giant.  Her  sis- 
ter Varya  got  on  Maika,  Nikitin  on  Count  Nulin, 
the  officers  on  their  horses,  and  the  long  picturesque 
cavalcade,  with  the  officers  in  white  tunics  and  the 
ladies  in  their  riding  habits,  moved  at  a  walking 
pace  out  of  the  yard. 

Nikitin  noticed  that  when  they  were  mounting 
235 


236     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

the  horses  and  afterwards  riding  out  into  the  street, 
Masha  for  some  reason  paid  attention  to  no  one 
but  himself.  She  looked  anxiously  at  him  and  at 
Count  Nulin  and  said: 

"  You  must  hold  him  all  the  time  on  the  curb, 
Sergey  Vassilitch.  Don't  let  him  shy.  He's  pre- 
tending." 

And  either  because  her  Giant  was  very  friendly 
with  Count  Nulin,  or  perhaps  by  chance,  she  rode 
all  the  time  beside  Nikitin,  as  she  had  done  the 
day  before,  and  the  day  before  that.  And  he 
looked  at  her  graceful  little  figure  sitting  on  the 
proud  white  beast,  at  her  delicate  profile,  at  the 
chimney-pot  hat,  which  did  not  suit  her  at  all  and 
made  her  look  older  than  her  age  —  looked  at  her 
with  joy,  with  tenderness,  with  rapture;  listened  to 
her,  taking  in  little  of  what  she  said,  and  thought: 

"  I  promise  on  my  honour,  I  swear  to  God,  I 
won't  be  afraid  and  I'll  speak  to  her  today." 

It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  —  the  time 
when  the  scent  of  white  acacia  and  lilac  is  so  strong 
that  the  air  and  the  very  trees  seem  heavy  with  the 
fragrance.  The  band  was  already  playing  in  the 
town  gardens.  The  horses  made  a  resounding  thud 
on  the  pavement,  on  all  sides  there  were  sounds  of 
laughter,  talk,  and  the  banging  of  gates.  The  sol- 
diers they  met  saluted  the  officers,  the  schoolboys 
bowed  to  Nikitin,  and  all  the  people  who  were 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        237 

hurrying  to  the  gardens  to  hear  the  band  were 
pleased  at  the  sight  of  the  party.  And  how  warm 
it  was!  How  soft-looking  were  the  clouds  scat- 
tered carelessly  about  the  sky,  how  kindly  and  com- 
forting the  shadows  of  the  poplars  and  the  acacias, 
which  stretched  across  the  street  and  reached  as  far 
as  the  balconies  and  second  stories  of  the  houses  on 
the  other  side. 

They  rode  on  out  of  the  town  and  set  off  at  a 
trot  along  the  highroad.  Here  there  was  no  scent 
of  lilac  and  acacia,  no  music  of  the  band,  but  there 
was  the  fragrance  of  the  fields,  there  was  the  green 
of  young  rye  and  wheat,  the  marmots  were  squeak- 
ing, the  rooks  were  cawing.  Wherever  one  looked 
it  was  green,  with  only  here  and  there  black  patches 
of  bare  ground,  and  far  away  to  the  left  in  the  ceme- 
tery a  white  streak  of  apple-blossom. 

They  passed  the  slaughter-houses,  then  the  brew- 
ery, and  overtook  a  military  band  hastening  to  the 
suburban  gardens. 

"  Polyansky  has  a  very  fine  horse,  I  don't  deny 
that,"  Masha  said  to  Nikitin,  with  a  glance  towards 
the  officer  who  was  riding  beside  Varya.  "  But  it 
has  blemishes.  That  white  patch  on  its  left  leg 
ought  not  to  be  there,  and,  look,  it  tosses  its  head. 
You  can't  train  it  not  to  now;  it  will  toss  its  head  till 
the  end  of  its  days." 

Masha  was  as  passionate  a  lover  of  horses  as  her 


238     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

father.  She  felt  a  pang  when  she  saw  other  people 
with  fine  horses,  and  was  pleased  when  she  saw  de- 
fects in  them.  Nikitin  knew  nothing  about  horses; 
it  made  absolutely  no  difference  to  him  whether  he 
held  his  horse  on  the  bridle  or  on  the  curb,  whether 
he  trotted  or  galloped;  he  only  felt  that  his  position 
wras  strained  and  unnatural,  and  that  consequently 
the  officers  who  knew  how  to  sit  in  their  saddles 
must  please  Masha  more  than  he  could.  And  he 
was  jealous  of  the  officers. 

As  they  rode  by  the  suburban  gardens  some  one 
suggested  their  going  in  and  getting  some  seltzer- 
water.  They  went  in.  There  were  no  trees  but 
oaks  in  the  gardens;  they  had  only  just  come  into 
leaf,  so  that  through  the  young  foliage  the  whole 
garden  could  still  be  seen  with  its  platform,  little 
tables,  and  swings,  and  the  crows'  nests  were  visible, 
looking  like  big  hats.  The  party  dismounted  near 
a  table  and  asked  for  seltzer-water.  People  they 
knew,  walking  about  the  garden,  came  up  to  them. 
Among  them  the  army  doctor  in  high  boots,  and 
the  conductor  of  the  band,  waiting  for  the  musicians. 
The  doctor  must  have  taken  Nikitin  for  a  student, 
for  he  asked: 

"  Have  you  come  for  the  summer  holidays?  " 

"  No,  I  am  here  permanently,"  answered  Nikitin. 
"  I  am  a  teacher  at  the  school." 

"You    don't    say    so?"    said    the    doctor,    with 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        239 

surprise.     "So    young   and    already    a    teacher?" 

"  Young,  indeed !  My  goodness,  I'm  twenty- 
six!" 

"  You  have  a  beard  and  moustache,  but  yet  one 
would  never  guess  you  were  more  than  twenty-two 
or  twenty-three.  How  young-looking  you  are !  " 

"  What  a  beast !  "  thought  Nikitin.  "  He,  too, 
takes  me  for  a  whipper-snapper  I  " 

He  disliked  it  extremely  when  people  referred 
to  his  youth,  especially  in  the  presence  of  women 
or  the  schoolboys.  Ever  since  he  had  come  to  the 
town  as  a  master  in  the  school  he  had  detested  his 
own  youthful  appearance.  The  schoolboys  were  not 
afraid  of  him,  old  people  called  him  "  young  man," 
ladies  preferred  dancing  with  him  to  listening  to 
his  long  arguments,  and  he  would  have  given  a  great 
deal  to  be  ten  years  older. 

From  the  garden  they  went  on  to  the  Shelestovs' 
farm.  I  here  they  stopped  at  the  gate  and  asked 
the  bailiff's  wife,  Praskovya,  to  bring  some  new 
milk.  Nobody  drank  the  milk;  they  all  looked  at 
one  another,  laughed,  and  galloped  back.  As  they 
rode  back  the  band  was  playing  in  the  suburban  gar- 
den; the  sun  was  setting  behind  the  cemetery,  and 
half  the  sky  was  crimson  from  the  sunset. 

Masha  again  rode  beside  Nikitin.  He  wanted 
to  tell  her  how  passionately  he  loved  her,  but  he 
was  afraid  he  would  be  overheard  by  the  officers 


240     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

and  Varya,  and  he  was  silent.  Masha  was  silent, 
too,  and  he  felt  why  she  was  silent  and  why  she 
was  riding  beside  him,  and  was  so  happy  that  the 
earth,  the  sky,  the  lights  of  the  town,  the  black 
outline  of  the  brewery  —  all  blended  for  him  into 
something  very  pleasant  and  comforting,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  as  though  Count  Nulin  were  stepping 
on  air  and  would  climb  up  into  the  crimson  sky. 

They  arrived  home.  The  samovar  was  already 
boiling  on  the  table,  old  Shelestov  was  sitting  with 
his  friends,  officials  in  the  Circuit  Court,  and  as 
usual  he  was  criticizing  something. 

"It's  loutishness !  "  he  said.  "  Loutishness  and 
nothing  more.  Yes!  " 

Since  Nikitin  had  been  in  love  with  Masha,  every- 
thing at  the  Shelestovs'  pleased  him:  the  house,  the 
garden,  and  the  evening  tea,  and  the  wickerwork 
chairs,  and  the  old  nurse,  and  even  the  word  "  lout- 
ishness," which  the  old  man  was  fond  of  using. 
The  only  thing  he  did  not  like  was  the  number  of 
cats  and  dogs  and  the  Egyptian  pigeons,  who  moaned 
disconsolately  in  a  big  cage  in  the  verandah.  There 
were  so  many  house-dogs  and  yard-dogs  that  he  had 
only  learnt  to  recognize  two  of  them  in  the  course  of 
his  acquaintance  with  the  Shelestovs:  Mushka  and 
Som.  Mushka  was  a  little  mangy  dog  with  a  shaggy 
face,  spiteful  and  spoiled.  She  hated  Nikitin:  when 
she  saw  him  she  put  her  head  on  one  side,  showed 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        241 

her  teeth,  and  began:  "Rrr  .  .  .  nga-nga-nga 
.  .  .  rrr  .  .  .  1  "  Then  she  would  get  under  his 
chair,  and  when  he  would  try  to  drive  her  away  she 
would  go  off  into  piercing  yaps,  and  the  family  would 
say:  "Don't  be  frightened.  She  doesn't  bite. 
She  is  a  good  dog." 

Som  was  a  tall  black  dog  with  long  legs  and  a 
tail  as  hard  as  a  stick.  At  dinner  and  tea  he  usually 
moved  about  under  the  table,  and  thumped  on  peo- 
ple's boots  and  on  the  legs  of  the  table  with  his  tail. 
He  was  a  good-natured,  stupid  dog,  but  Nikitin  could 
not  endure  him  because  he  had  the  habit  of  putting 
his  head  on  people's  knees  at  dinner  and  messing 
their  trousers  with  saliva.  Nikitin  had  more  than 
once  tried  to  hit  him  on  his  head  with  a  knife-handle, 
to  flip  him  on  the  nose,  had  abused  him,  had  com- 
plained of  him,  but  nothing  saved  his  trousers. 

After  their  ride  the  tea,  jam,  rusks,  and  butter 
seemed  very  nice.  They  all  drank  their  first  glass 
in  silence  and  with  great  relish;  over  the  second 
they  began  an  argument.  It  was  always  Varya  who 
started  the  arguments  at  tea;  she  was  good-looking, 
handsomer  than  Masha,  and  was  considered  the 
cleverest  and  most  cultured  person  in  the  house,  and 
she  behaved  with  dignity  and  severity,  as  an  eldest 
daughter  should  who  has  taken  the  place  of  her  dead 
mother  in  the  house.  As  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
she  felt  herself  entitled  to  wear  a  dressing-gown 


242     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

in  the  presence  of  her  guests,  and  to  call  the  officers 
by  their  surnames;  she  looked  on  Masha  as  a  little 
girl,  and  talked  to  her  as  though  she  were  a  school- 
mistress. She  used  to  speak  of  herself  as  an  old 
maid  —  so  she  was  certain  she  would  marry. 

Every  conversation,  even  about  the  weather,  she 
invariably  turned  into  an  argument.  She  had  a  pas- 
sion for  catching  at  words,  pouncing  on  contradic- 
tions, quibbling  over  phrases.  You  would  begin 
talking  to  her,  and  she  would  stare  at  you  and  sud- 
denly interrupt:  "Excuse  me,  excuse  me,  Petrov, 
the  other  day  you  said  the  very  opposite!  " 

Or  she  would  smile  ironically  and  say:  "  I  no- 
tice, though,  you  begin  to  advocate  the  principles 
of  the  secret  police.  I  congratulate  you." 

If  you  jested  or  made  a  pun,  you  would  hear  her 
voice  at  once:  ;'  That's  stale,"  "  That's  pointless." 
If  an  officer  ventured  on  a  joke,  she  would  make  a 
contemptuous  grimace  and  say,  "An  army  joke!" 

And  she  rolled  the  r  so  impressively  that  Mushka 
invariably  answered  from  under  a  chair,  "  Rrr  .  .  . 
nga-nga-nga  ...  !  " 

On  this  occasion  at  tea  the  argument  began  with 
Nikitin's  mentioning  the  school  examinations. 

"  Excuse  me,  Sergey  Vassilitch,"  Varya  inter- 
rupted him.  "  You  say  it's  difficult  for  the  boys. 
And  whose  fault  is  that,  let  me  ask  you?  For  in- 
stance, you  set  the  boys  in  the  eighth  class  an  essay 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        243 

on  '  Pushkin  as  a  Psychologist.'  To  begin  with, 
you  shouldn't  set  such  a  difficult  subject;  and,  sec- 
ondly, Pushkin  was  not  a  psychologist.  Shtchedrin 
now,  or  Dostoevsky  let  us  say,  is  a  different  matter, 
but  Pushkin  is  a  great  poet  and  nothing  more." 

"  Shtchedrin  is  one  thing,  and  Pushkin  is  an- 
other," Nikitin  answered  sulkily. 

"  I  know  you  don't  think  much  of  Shtchedrin  at 
the  high  school,  but  that's  not  the  point.  Tell  me, 
in  what  sense  is  Pushkin  a  psychologist?  " 

;'  Why,  do  you  mean  to  say  he  was  not  a  psy- 
chologist? If  you  like,  I'll  give  you  examples." 

And  Nikitin  recited  several  passages  from  "  On- 
yegin  "  and  then  from  "  Boris  Godunov." 

u  I  see  no  psychology  in  that."  Varya  sighed. 
"  The  psychologist  is  the  man  who  describes  the 
recesses  of  the  human  soul,  and  that's  fine  poetry 
and  nothing  more." 

"  I  know  the  sort  of  psychology  you  want,"  said 
Nikitin,  offended.  "  You  want  some  one  to  saw 
my  finger  with  a  blunt  saw  while  I  howl  at  the  top 
of  my  voice  —  that's  what  you  mean  by  psychol- 

ogy." 

"  That's  poor!  But  still  you  haven't  shown  me 
in  what  sense  Pushkin  is  a  psychologist?  " 

When  Nikitin  had  to  argue  against  anything  that 
seemed  to  him  narrow,  conventional,  or  something 
of  that  kind,  he  usually  leaped  up  from  his  seat, 


244     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

clutched  at  his  head  with  both  hands,  and  began  with 
a  moan,  running  from  one  end  of  the  room  to  an- 
other. And  it  was  the  same  now:  he  jumped  up, 
clutched  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  with  a  moan 
walked  round  the  table,  then  he  sat  down  a  little  way 
off. 

The  officers  took  his  part.  Captain  Polyansky 
began  assuring  Varya  that  Pushkin  really  was  a  psy- 
chologist, and  to  prove  it  quoted  two  lines  from 
Lermontov;  Lieutenant  Gernet  said  that  if  Pushkin 
had  not  been  a  psychologist  they  would  not  have 
erected  a  monument  to  him  in  Moscow. 

'  That's  loutishness!  "  was  heard  from  the  other 
end  of  the  table.  "  I  said  as  much  to  the  governor: 
'  It's  loutishness,  your  Excellency,'  I  said." 

"  I  won't  argue  any  more,"  cried  Nikitin.  "  It's 
unending.  .  .  .  Enough !  Ach,  get  away,  you  nasty 
dog!  "  he  cried  to  Som,  who  laid  his  head  and  paw 
on  his  knee. 

"  Rrr  .  .  .  nga-nga-nga !  "  came  from  under  the 
table. 

"Admit  that  you  are  wrong!"  cried  Varya. 
"Own  up!" 

But  some  young  ladies  came  in,  and  the  argument 
dropped  of  itself.  They  all  went  into  the  drawing- 
room.  Varya  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began 
playing  dances.  They  danced  first  a  waltz,  then  a 
polka,  then  a  quadrille  with  a  grand  chain  which 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        245 

Captain  Polyansky  led  through  all  the  rooms,  then 
a  waltz  again. 

During  the  dancing  the  old  men  sat  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, smoking  and  looking  at  the  young  peo- 
ple. Among  them  was  Shebaldin,  the  director  of 
the  municipal  bank,  who  was  famed  for  his  love  of 
literature  and  dramatic  art.  He  had  founded  the 
local  Musical  and  Dramatic  Society,  and  took  part 
in  the  performances  himself,  confining  himself,  for 
some  reason,  to  playing  comic  footmen  or  to  read- 
ing in  a  sing-song  voice  "  The  Woman  who  was  a 
Sinner."  His  nickname  in  the  town  was  "  the 
Mummy,"  as  he  was  tall,  very  lean  and  scraggy, 
and  always  had  a  solemn  air  and  a  fixed,  lustreless 
eye.  He  was  so  devoted  to  the  dramatic  art  that 
he  even  shaved  his  moustache  and  beard,  and  this 
made  him  still  more  like  a  mummy. 

After  the  grand  chain,  he  shuffled  up  to  Nikitin 
sideways,  coughed,  and  said: 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  being  present  during  the 
argument  at  tea.  I  fully  share  your  opinion.  We 
are  of  one  mind,  and  it  would  be  a  great  pleasure 
to  me  to  talk  to  you.  Have  you  read  Lessing  on 
the  dramatic  art  of  Hamburg?  " 

"  No,  I  haven't." 

Shebaldin  was  horrified,  and  waved  his  hands  as 
though  he  had  burnt  his  fingers,  and  saying  nothing 
more,  staggered  back  from  Nikitin.  Shebaldin's 


246     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

appearance,  his  question,  and  his  surprise,  struck 
Nikitin  as  funny,  but  he  thought  none  the  less : 

"  It  really  is  awkward.  I  am  a  teacher  of  litera- 
ture, and  to  this  day  IVejiot  read  Lessing.  I  must 
read  him." 

Before  supper  the  whole  company,  old  and  young, 
sat  down  to  play  "  fate."  They  took  two  packs 
of  cards :  one  pack  was  dealt  round  to  the  company, 
the  other  was  laid  on  the  table  face  downwards. 

'  The  one  who  has  this  card  in  his  hand,"  old 
Shelestov  began  solemnly,  lifting  the  top  card  of 
the  second  pack,  "  is  fated  to  go  into  the  nursery 
and  kiss  nurse." 

The  pleasure  of  kissing  the  nurse  fell  to  the  lot 
of  Shebaldin.  They  all  crowded  round  him,  took 
him  to  the  nursery,  and  laughing  and  clapping  their 
hands,  made  him  kiss  the  nurse.  There  was  a  great 
uproar  and  shouting. 

"Not  so  ardently!"  cried  Shelestov  with  tears 
of  laughter.  "  Not  so  ardently!  " 

It  was  Nikitin's  "  fate  "  to  hear  the  confessions 
of  all.  He  sat  on  a  chair  in  the  middle  of  the 
drawing-room.  A  shawl  was  brought  and  put  over 
his  head.  The  first  who  came  to  confess  to  him  was 
Varya. 

u  I  know  your  sins,"  Nikitin  began,  looking  in  the 
darkness  at  her  stern  profile.  "  Tell  me,  madam, 
how  do  you  explain  your  walking  with  Polyansky 


The  Teacher  of  Literature         247 

every  day?  Oh,  it's  not  for  nothing  she  walks  with 
an  hussar !  " 

'  That's  poor,"  said  Varya,  and  walked  away. 

Then  under  the  shawl  he  saw  the  shine  of  big 
motionless  eyes,  caught  the  lines  of  a  dear  profile 
in  the  dark,  together  with  a  familiar,  precious  fra- 
grance which  reminded  Nikitin  of  Masha's  room. 

"  Marie  Godefroi,"  he  said,  and  did  not  know 
his  own  voice,  it  was  so  soft  and  tender,  "  what  are 
your  sins?  " 

Masha  screwed  up  her  eyes  and  put  out  the  tip 
of  her  tongue  at  him,  then  she  laughed  and  went 
away.  And  a  minute  later  she  was  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  clapping  her  hands  and  crying: 

"  Supper,  supper,  supper!  " 

And  they  all  streamed  into  the  dining-room.  At 
supper  Varya  had  another  argument,  and  this  time 
with  her  father.  Polyansky  ate  stolidly,  drank  red 
\vine,  and  described  to  Nikitin  how  once  in  a  winter 
campaign  he  had  stood  all  night  up  to  his  knees  in 
a  bog;  the  enemy  was  so  near  that  they  were  not 
allowed  to  speak  or  smoke,  the  night  was  cold  and 
dark,  a  piercing  wind  was  blowing.  Nikitin  listened 
and  stole  side-glances  at  Masha.  She  was  gazing  at 
him  immovably,  without  blinking,  as  though  she  was 
pondering  something  or  wras  lost  in  a  reverie.  .  .  . 
It  was  pleasure  and  agony  to  him  both  at  once. 

"  Why  does  she  look  at  me  like  that?  "  was  the 


248     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

question  that  fretted  him.  "  It's  awkward.  People 
may  notice  it.  Oh,  how  young,  how  naive  she  is!  " 

The  party  broke  up  at  midnight.  When  Nikitin 
went  out  at  the  gate,  a  window  opened  on  the  first- 
floor,  and  Masha  showed  herself  at  it. 

"  Sergey  Vassilitchl  "  she  called. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  tell  you  what  .  .  ."  said  Masha,  evidently 
thinking  of  something  to  say.  "  I  tell  you  what. 
.  .  .  Polyansky  said  he  would  come  in  a  day  or 
two  with  his  camera  and  take  us  all.  We  must  meet 
here." 

"  Very  well." 

Masha  vanished,  the  window  was  slammed,  and 
some  one  immediately  began  playing  the  piano  in 
the  house. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  house !  "  thought  Nikitin  while  he 
crossed  the  street.  "  A  house  in  which  there  is  no 
moaning  except  from  Egyptian  pigeons,  and  they 
only  do  it  because  they  have  no  other  means  of  ex- 
pressing their  joy!  " 

But  the  Shelestovs  were  not  the  only  festive  house- 
hold. Nikitin  had  not  gone  two  hundred  paces  be- 
fore he  heard  the  strains  of  a  piano  from  another 
house.  A  little  further  he  met  a  peasant  playing 
the  balalaika  at  the  gate.  In  the  gardens  the  band 
struck  up  a  potpourri  of  Russian  songs. 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        249 

Nikitin  lived  nearly  half  a  mile  from  the  Sheles- 
tovs'  in  a  flat  of  eight  rooms  at  the  rent  of  three 
hundred  roubles  a  year,  which  he  shared  with  his 
colleague  Ippolit  Ippolititch,  a  teacher  of  geography 
and  history.  When  Nikitin  went  in  this  Ippolit 
Ippolititch,  a  snub-nosed,  middle-aged  man  with  a 
reddish  beard,  with  a  coarse,  good-natured,  unintel- 
lectual  face  like  a  workman's,  was  sitting  at  the  table 
correcting  his  pupils'  maps.  He  considered  that  the 
most  important  and  necessary  part  of  the  study  of 
geeography  was  the  drawing  of  maps,  and  of  the 
study  of  history  the  learning  of  dates:  he  would  sit 
for  nights  together  correcting  in  blue  pencil  the  maps 
drawn  by  the  boys  and  girls  he  taught,  or  making 
chronological  tables. 

"What  a  lovely  day  it  has  been!  "  said  Nikitin, 
going  in  to  him.  "  I  wonder  at  you  —  how  can  you 
sit  indoors?  " 

Ippolit  Ippolititch  was  not  a  talkative  person;  he 
either  remained  silent  or  talked  of  things  which 
everybody  knew  already.  Now  what  he  answered 
was : 

'  Yes,  very  fine  weather.  It's  May  now;  we  soon 
shall  have  real  summer.  And  summer's  a  very  dif- 
ferent thing  from  winter.  In  the  winter  you  have 
to  heat  the  stoves,  but  in  summer  you  can  keep  warm 
without.  In  summer  you  have  your  window  open 


250     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

at  night  and  still  are  warm,  and  in  winter  you  are 
cold  even  with  the  double  frames  in." 

Nikitin  had  not  sat  at  the  table  for  more  than 
one  minute  before  he  was  bored. 

"  Good-night!  "  he  said,  getting  up  and  yawning. 
"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  something  romantic  concern- 
ing myself,  but  you  are  —  geography!  If  one  talks 
to  you  of  love,  you  will  ask  one  at  once,  '  What  was 
the  date  of  the  Battle  of  Kalka?  '  Confound  you, 
with  your  battles  and  your  capes  in  Siberia  I  " 

'  What  are  you  cross  about?  " 

"  Why,  it  is  vexatious !  " 

And  vexed  that  he  had  not  spoken  to  Masha,  and 
that  he  had  no  one  to  talk  to  of  his  love,  he  went  to 
his  study  and  lay  down  upon  the  sofa.  It  was  dark 
and  still  in  the  study.  Lying  gazing  into  the  dark- 
ness, Nikitin  for  some  reason  began  thinking  how 
in  two  or  three  years  he  would  go  to  Petersburg, 
how  Masha  would  see  him  off  at  the  station  and 
would  cry;  in  Petersburg  he  would  get  a  long  letter 
from  her  in  which  she  would  entreat  him  to  come 
home  as  quickly  as  possible.  And  he  would  write 
to  her.  .  .  .  He  would  begin  his  letter  like  that: 
"  My  dear  little  rat!" 

"Yes,  my  dear  little  rat!"  he  said,  and  he 
laughed. 

He  was  lying  in  an  uncomfortable  position.  He 
put  his  arms  under  his  head  and  put  his  left  leg  over 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        251 

the  back  of  the  sofa.  He  felt  more  comfortable. 
Meanwhile  a  pale  light  was  more  and  more  per- 
ceptible at  the  windows,  sleepy  cocks  crowed  in  the 
yard.  Nikitin  went  on  thinking  how  he  would  come 
back  from  Petersburg,  how  Masha  would  meet  him 
at  the  station,  and  with  a  shriek  of  delight  would 
fling  herself  on  his  neck;  or,  better  still,  he  would 
cheat  her  and  come  home  by  stealth  late  at  night: 
the  cook  would  open  the  door,  then  he  would  go  on 
tiptoe  to  the  bedroom,  undress  noiselessly,  and  jump 
into  bed !  And  she  would  wake  up  and  be  overjoyed. 

It  was  beginning  to  get  quite  light.  By  now  there 
were  no  windows,  no  study.  On  the  steps  of  the 
brewery  by  which  they  had  ridden  that  day  Masha 
was  sitting,  saying  something.  Then  she  took  Niki- 
tin by  the  arm  and  went  with  him  to  the  suburban 
garden.  There  he  saw  the  oaks  and  the  crows' 
nests  like  hats.  One  of  the  nests  rocked;  out  of  it 
peeped  Shebaldin,  shouting  loudly:  '  You  have  not 
read  Lessing!  " 

Nikitin  shuddered  all  over  and  opened  his  eyes. 
Ippolit  Ippolititch  was  standing  before  the  sofa,  and 
throwing  back  his  head,  was  putting  on  his  cravat. 

"Get  up;  it's  time  for  school,"  he  said.  'You 
shouldn't  sleep  in  your  clothes;  it  spoils  your  clothes. 
You  should  sleep  in  your  bed,  undressed." 

And  as  usual  he  began  slowly  and  emphatically 
saying  what  everybody  knew. 


252     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

Nikitin's  first  lesson  was  on  Russian  language  in 
the  second  class.  When  at  nine  o'clock  punctually 
he  went  into  the  classroom,  he  saw  written  on  the 
blackboard  two  large  letters  —  A/.  S.  That,  no 
doubt,  meant  Masha  Shelestov. 

"  They've  scented  it  out  already,  the  rascals  .  .  ." 
thought  Nikitin.  "  How  is  it  they  know  every- 
thing? " 

The  second  lesson  was  in  the  fifth  class.  And 
there  two  letters,  M.  S.,  were  written  on  the  black- 
board; and  when  he  went  out  of  the  classroom  at 
the  end  of  the  lesson,  he  heard  the  shout  behind  him 
as  though  from  a  theatre  gallery: 

"  Hurrah  for  Masha  Shelestov!  " 

His  head  was  heavy  from  sleeping  in  his  clothes, 
his  limbs  were  weighted  down  with  inertia.  The 
boys,  who  were  expecting  every  day  to  break  up 
before  the  examinations,  did  nothing,  were  restless, 
and  so  bored  that  they  got  into  mischief.  Nikitin, 
too,  was  restless,  did  not  notice  their  pranks,  and 
was  continually  going  to  the  window.  He  could  see 
the  street  brilliantly  lighted  up  with  the  sun;  above 
the  houses  the  blue  limpid  sky,  the  birds,  and  far, 
far  away,  beyond  the  gardens  and  the  houses,  vast 
indefinite  distance,  the  forests  in  the  blue  haze,  the 
smoke  from  a  passing  train.  .  .  . 

Here  two  officers  in  white  tunics,  playing  with 
their  whips,  passed  in  the  street  in  the  shade  of 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        253 

the  acacias.  Here  a  lot  of  Jews,  with  grey  beards, 
and  caps  on,  drove  past  in  a  waggonette.  .  .  .  The 
governess  walked  by  with  the  director's  granddaugh- 
ter. Som  ran  by  in  the  company  of  two  other  dogs. 
.  .  .  And  then  Varya,  wearing  a  simple  grey  dress 
and  red  stockings,  carrying  the  "  Vyestnik  Evropi  " 
in  her  hand,  passed  by.  She  must  have  been  to  the 
town  library.  .  .  . 

And  it  would  be  a  long  time  before  lessons  were 
over  at  three  o'clock!  And  after  school  he  could 
not  go  home  nor  to  the  Shelestovs',  but  must  go  to 
give  a  lesson  at  Wolf's.  This  Wolf,  a  wealthy  Jew 
who  had  turned  Lutheran,  did  not  send  his  children 
to  the  high  school,  but  had  them  taught  at  home  by 
the  high-school  masters,  and  paid  five  roubles  a  les- 
son. 

He  was  bored,  bored,  bored. 

At  three  o'clock  he  went  to  Wolf's  and  spent 
there,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  an  eternity.  He  left 
there  at  five  o'clock,  and  before  seven  he  had  to 
be  at  the  high  school  again  to  a  meeting  of  the  mas- 
ters —  to  draw  up  the  plan  for  the  viva  voce  exami- 
nation of  the  fourth  and  sixth  classes. 

When  late  in  the  evening  he  left  the  high  school 
and  went  to  the  Shelestovs',  his  heart  was  beating 
and  his  face  was  flushed.  A  month  before,  even 
a  week  before,  he  had,  every  time  that  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  speak  to  her,  prepared  a  whole  speech, 


254     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

with  an  introduction  and  a  conclusion.  Now  he 
had  not  one  word  ready;  everything  was  in  a  mud- 
dle in  his  head,  and  all  he  knew  was  that  today  he 
would  certainly  declare  himself,  and  that  it  was  ut- 
terly impossible  to  wait  any  longer. 

"  I  will  ask  her  to  come  to  the  garden,"  he 
thought;  "we'll  walk  about  a  little  and  I'll  speak." 

There  was  not  a  soul  in  the  hall;  he  went  into 
the  dining-room  and  then  into  the  drawing-room. 
.  .  .  There  was  no  one  there  either.  He  could  hear 
Varya  arguing  with  some  one  upstairs  and  the  clink 
of  the  dressmaker's  scissors  in  the  nursery. 

There  was  a  little  room  in  the  house  which  had 
three  names:  the  little  room,  the  passage  room,  and 
the  dark  room.  There  was  a  big  cupboard  in  it 
where  they  kept  medicines,  gunpowder,  and  their 
hunting  gear.  Leading  from  this  room  to  the  first 
floor  wras  a  narrow  wooden  staircase  where  cats  were 
always  asleep.  There  were  two  doors  in  it  —  one 
leading  to  the  nursery,  one  to  the  drawing-room. 
When  Nikitin  went  into  this  room  to  go  upstairs, 
the  door  from  the  nursery  opened  and  shut  with  such 
a  bang  that  it  made  the  stairs  and  the  cupboard  trem- 
ble; Masha,  in  a  dark  dress,  ran  in  with  a  piece  of 
blue  material  in  her  hand,  and,  not  noticing  Nikitin, 
darted  towards  the  stairs. 

"  Stay  .  .  ."  said  Nikitin,  stopping  her.  '  Good- 
evening,  Godefroi.  .  .  .  Allow  me.  .  .  ." 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        255 

He  gasped,  he  did  not  know  what  to  say;  with 
one  hand  he  held  her  hand  and  with  the  other  the 
blue  material.  And  she  was  half  frightened,  half 
surprised,  and  looked  at  him  with  big  eyes. 

"  Allow  me  .  .  ."  Nikitin  went  on,  afraid  she 
would  go  away.  "  There's  something  I  must  say  to 
you.  .  .  .  Only  .  .  .  it's  inconvenient  here.  I  can- 
not, I  am  incapable.  .  .  .  Understand,  Godefroi,  I 
can't  —  that's  all.  .  .  ." 

The  blue  material  slipped  on  to  the  floor,  and 
Nikitin  took  Masha  by  the  other  hand.  She  turned 
pale,  moved  her  lips,  then  stepped  back  from  Niki- 
tin and  found  herself  in  the  corner  between  the  wall 
and  the  cupboard. 

"  On  my  honour,  I  assure  you  .  .  ."  he  said 
softly.  "  Masha,  on  my  honour.  .  .  ." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  he  kissed  her  lips, 
and  that  the  kiss  might  last  longer  he  put  his  fin- 
gers to  her  cheeks;  and  it  somehow  happened  that 
he  found  himself  in  the  corner  between  the  cupboard 
and  the  wall,  and  she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck 
and  pressed  her  head  against  his  chin. 

Then  they  both  ran  into  the  garden.  The  Sheles- 
tovs  had  a  garden  of  nine  acres.  There  were  about 
twenty  old  maples  and  lime-trees  in  it;  there  was  one 
fir-tree,  and  all  the  rest  were  fruit-trees :  cherries, 
apples,  pears,  horse-chestnuts,  silvery  olive-trees. 
.  .  .  There  were  heaps  of  flowers,  too. 


256     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

Nikitin  and  Masha  ran  along  the  avenues  in  si- 
lence, laughed,  asked  each  other  from  time  to  time 
disconnected  questions  which  they  did  not  answer. 
A  crescent  moon  was  shining  over  the  garden,  and 
drowsy  tulips  and  irises  were  stretching  up  from  the 
dark  grass  in  its  faint  light,  as  though  entreating 
for  words  of  love  for  them,  too. 

When  Nikitin  and  Masha  went  back  to  the  house, 
the  officers  and  the  young  ladies  were  already  as- 
sembled and  dancing  the  mazurka.  Again  Polyan- 
sky  led  the  grand  chain  through  all  the  rooms,  again 
after  dancing  they  played  "  fate."  Before  supper, 
when  the  visitors  had  gone  into  the  dining-room, 
Masha,  left  alone  with  Nikitin,  pressed  close  to  him 
and  said: 

"  You  must  speak  to  papa  and  Varya  yourself;  I 
am  ashamed." 

After  supper  he  talked  to  the  old  father.  After 
listening  to  him,  Shelestov  thought  a  little  and  said: 

"  I  am  very  grateful  for  the  honour  you  do  me 
and  my  daughter,  but  let  me  speak  to  you  as  a  friend. 
I  will  speak  to  you,  not  as  a  father,  but  as  one  gen- 
tleman to  another.  Tell  me,  why  do  you  want  to 
be  married  so  young?  Only  peasants  are  married 
so  young,  and  that,  of  course,  is  loutishness.  But 
why  should  you?  Where's  the  satisfaction  of  put- 
ting on  the  fetters  at  your  age?  " 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        257 

"  I  am  not  young!  "  said  Nikitin,  offended.  "  I 
am  in  my  twenty-seventh  year." 

"  Papa,  the  farrier  has  come!  "  cried  Varya  from 
the  other  room. 

And  the  conversation  broke  off.  Varya,  Masha, 
and  Polyansky  saw  Nikitin  home.  When  they 
reached  his  gate,  Varya  said: 

"  Why  is  it  your  mysterious  Metropolit  Metro- 
polititch  never  shows  himself  anywhere  ?  He  might 
come  and  see  us." 

The  mysterious  Ippolit  Ippolititch  was  sitting  on 
his  bed,  taking  off  his  trousers,  when  Nikitin  went 
in  to  him. 

"  Don't  go  to  bed,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Nikitin 
breathlessly.  "  Stop  a  minute;  don't  go  to  bed!  " 

Ippolit  Ippolititch  put  on  his  trousers  hurriedly 
and  asked  in  a  flutter: 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

Nikitin  sat  down  beside  his  companion,  and  look- 
ing at  him  wonderingly,  as  though  surprised  at  him- 
self, said: 

"Only  fancy,  I  am  going  to  be  married!  To 
Masha  Shelestov!  I  made  an  offer  today." 

"Well?  She  seems  a  good  sort  of  girl.  Only 
she  is  very  young." 

"  Yes,  she  is  young,"  sighed  Nikitin,  and  shrugged 


258     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

his  shoulders  with  a  careworn  air.  "  Very,  very 
young!  " 

"  She  was  my  pupil  at  the  high  school.  I  know 
her.  She  wasn't  bad  at  geography,  but  she  was 
no  good  at  history.  And  she  was  inattentive  in 
class,  too." 

Nikitin  for  some  reason  felt  suddenly  sorry  for 
his  companion,  and  longed  to  say  something  kind 
and  comforting  to  him. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  why  don't  you  get  married?  " 
he  asked.  "  Why  don't  you  marry  Varya,  for  in- 
stance? She  is  a  splendid,  first-rate  girl!  It's  true 
she  is  very  fond  of  arguing,  but  a  heart  .  .  .  what 
a  heart!  She  was  just  asking  about  you.  Marry 
her,  my  dear  boy!  Eh?  " 

He  knew  perfectly  well  that  Varya  would  not 
marry  this  dull,  snub-nosed  man,  but  still  persuaded 
him  to  marry  her  —  why? 

"  Marriage  is  a  serious  step,"  said  Ippolit  Ippo- 
lititch  after  a  moment's  thought.  "  One  has  to  look 
at  it  all  round  and  weigh  things  thoroughly;  it's 
not  to  be  done  rashly.  Prudence  is  always  a  good 
thing,  and  especially  in  marriage,  when  a  man,  ceas- 
ing to  be  a  bachelor,  begins  a  new  life." 

And  he  talked  of  what  every  one  has  known  for 
ages.  Nikitin  did  not  stay  to  listen,  said  good- 
night, and  went  to  his  own  room.  He  undressed 
quickly  and  quickly  got  into  bed,  in  order  to  be 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        259 

able  to  think  the  sooner  of  his  happiness,  of  Masha, 
of  the  future;  he  smiled,  then  suddenly  recalled 
that  he  had  not  read  Lessing. 

"  I  must  read  him,"  he  thought.  "  Though, 
after  all,  why  should  I  ?  Bother  him  !  " 

And  exhausted  by  his  happiness,  he  fell  asleep 
at  once  and  went  on  smiling  till  the  morning. 

He  dreamed  of  the  thud  of  horses'  hoofs  on  a 
wooden  floor;  he  dreamed  of  the  black  horse  Count 
Nulin,  then  of  the  white  Giant  and  its  sister  Maika, 
being  led  out  of  the  stable. 

II 

<(  It  was  very  crowded  and  noisy  in  the  church, 
and  once  some  one  cried  out,  and  the  head  priest, 
who  was  marrying  Masha  and  me,  looked  through 
his  spectacles  at  the  crowd,  and  said  severely: 
'  Don't  move  about  the  church,  and  don't  make  a 
noise,  but  stand  quietly  and  pray.  You  should  have 
the  fear  of  God  in  your  hearts.' 

"  My  best  men  were  two  of  my  colleagues,  and 
Masha's  best  men  were  Captain  Polyansky  and 
Lieutenant  Gernet.  The  bishop's  choir  sang  su- 
perbly. The  sputtering  of  the  candles,  the  bril- 
liant light,  the  gorgeous  dresses,  the  officers,  the 
numbers  of  gay,  happy  faces,  and  a  special  ethereal 
look  in  Masha,  everything  together  —  the  surround- 


260     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

ings  and  the  words  of  the  wedding  prayers  —  moved 
me  to  tears  and  filled  me  with  triumph.  I  thought 
how  my  life  had  blossomed,  how  poetically  it  was 
shaping  itself!  Two  years  ago  I  was  still  a  student, 
I  was  living  in  cheap  furnished  rooms,  without 
money,  without  relations,  and,  as  I  fancied  then, 
with  nothing  to  look  forward  to.  Now  I  am  a 
teacher  in  the  high  school  in  one  of  the  best  pro- 
vincial towns,  with  a  secure  income,  loved,  spoiled. 
It  is  for  my  sake,  I  thought,  this  crowd  is  collected, 
for  my  sake  three  candelabra  have  been  lighted,  the 
deacon  is  booming,  the  choir  is  doing  !ts  best;  and 
it's  for  my  sake  that  this  young  creature,  whom  I 
soon  shall  call  my  wife,  is  so  young,  so  elegant,  and 
so  joyful.  I  recalled  our  first  meetings,  our  rides 
into  the  country,  my  declaration  of  love  and  the 
weather,  which,  as  though  expressly,  was  so  exqui- 
sitely fine  all  the  summer;  and  the  happiness  which 
at  one  time  in  my  old  rooms  seemed  to  me  possible 
only  in  novels  and  stories,  I  was  now  experiencing 
in  reality  —  I  was  now,  as  it  were,  holding  it  in 
my  hands. 

"  After  the  ceremony  they  all  crowded  in  dis- 
order round  Masha  and  me,  expressed  their  genuine 
pleasure,  congratulated  us  and  wished  us  joy.  The 
brigadier-general,  an  old  man  of  seventy,  confined 
himself  to  congratulating  Masha,  and  said  to  her 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        261 

in  a  squeaky,  aged  voice,  so  loud  that  it  could  be 
heard  all  over  the  church: 

"  '  I  hope  that  even  after  you  are  married  you 
may  remain  the  rose  you  are  now,  my  dear.' 

"  The  officers,  the  director,  and  all  the  teachers 
smiled  from  politeness,  and  I  was  conscious  of  an 
agreeable  artificial  smile  on  my  face,  too.  Dear 
Ippolit  Ippolititch,  the  teacher  of  history  and  geog- 
raphy, who  always  says  what  every  one  has  heard 
before,  pressed  my  hand  warmly  and  said  with  feel- 
ing: 

"  '  Hitherto  you  have  been  unmarried  and  have 
lived  alone,  and  now  you  are  married  and  no  longer 
single.' 

"  From  the  church  we  went  to  a  two-storied 
house  which  I  am  receiving  as  part  of  the  dowry. 
Besides  that  house  Masha  is  bringing  me  twenty 
thousand  roubles,  as  well  as  a  piece  of  waste  land 
with  a  shanty  on  it,  where  I  am  told  there  are  num- 
bers of  hens  and  ducks  which  are  not  looked  after 
and  are  turning  wild.  When  I  got  home  from  the 
church,  I  stretched  myself  at  full  length  on  the  low 
sofa  in  my  new  study  and  began  to  smoke;  I  felt 
snug,  cosy,  and  comfortable,  as  I  never  had  in  my 
life  before.  And  meanwhile  the  wedding  party 
were  shouting  '  Hurrah  1  '  while  a  wretched  band  in 
the  hall  played  flourishes  and  all  sorts  of  trash. 


262     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

Varya,  Masha's  sister,  ran  into  the  study  with  a 
wineglass  in  her  hand,  and  with  a  queer,  strained 
expression,  as  though  her  mouth  were  full  of  water; 
apparently  she  had  meant  to  go  on  further,  but  she 
suddenly  burst  out  laughing  and  sobbing,  and  the 
wineglass  crashed  on  the  floor.  We  took  her  by  the 
arms  and  led  her  away. 

"  '  Nobody  can  understand!  '  she  muttered  after- 
wards, lying  on  the  old  nurse's  bed  in  a  back  room. 
'  Nobody,  nobody !  My  God,  nobody  can  under- 
stand! ' 

"  But  every  one  understood  very  well  that  she 
was  four  years  older  than  her  sister  Masha,  and  still 
unmarried,  and  that  she  was  crying,  not  from  envy, 
but  from  the  melancholy  consciousness  that  her  time 
was  passing,  and  perhaps  had  passed.  When  they 
danced  the  quadrille,  she  was  back  in  the  drawing- 
room  with  a  tear-stained  and  heavily  powdered  face, 
and  I  saw  Captain  Polyansky  holding  a  plate  of  ice 
before  her  while  she  ate  it  with  a  spoon. 

"  It  is  past  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  took 
up  my  diary  to  describe  my  complete  and  perfect 
happiness,  and  thought  I  would  write  a  good  six 
pages,  and  read  it  tomorrow  to  Masha;  but,  strange 
to  say,  everything  is  muddled  in  my  head  and  as 
misty  as  a  dream,  and  I  can  remember  vividly  noth- 
ing but  that  episode  with  Varya,  and  I  want  to 
write,  '  Poor  Varya !  '  I  could  go  on  sitting  here 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        263 

and  writing  '  Poor  Varya !  '  By  the  way,  the  trees 
have  begun  rustling;  it  will  rain.  The  crows  are 
cawing,  and  my  Masha,  who  has  just  gone  to  sleep, 
has  for  some  reason  a  sorrowful  face." 

For  a  long  while  afterwards  Nikitin  did  not  write 
his  diary.  At  the  beginning  of  August  he  had  the 
school  examinations,  and  after  the  fifteenth  the 
classes  began.  As  a  rule  he  set  off  for  school  before 
nine  in  the  morning,  and  before  ten  o'clock  he  was 
looking  at  his  watch  and  pining  for  his  Masha  and 
his  new  house.  In  the  lower  forms  he  would  set 
some  boy  to  dictate,  and  while  the  boys  were  writ- 
ing, would  sit  in  the  window  with  his  eyes  shut, 
dreaming;  whether  he  dreamed  of  the  future  or  re- 
called the  past,  everything  seemed  to  him  equally  de- 
lightful, like  a  fairy  tale.  In  the  senior  classes  they 
were  reading  aloud  Gogol  or  Pushkin's  prose  works, 
and  that  made  him  sleepy;  people,  trees,  fields, 
horses,  rose  before  his  imagination,  and  he  would 
say  with  a  sigh,  as  though  fascinated  by  the  author: 

"How  lovely!" 

At  the  midday  recess  Masha  used  to  send  him 
lunch  in  a  snow-white  napkin,  and  he  would  eat  it 
slowly,  with  pauses,  to  prolong  the  enjoyment  of 
it;  and  Ippolit  Ippolititch,  whose  lunch  as  a  rule 
consisted  of  nothing  but  bread,  looked  at  him  with 
respect  and  envy,  and  gave  expression  to  some  fa- 
miliar fact,  such  as : 


264     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  Men  cannot  live  without  food." 

After  school  Nikitin  went  straight  to  give  his  pri- 
vate lessons,  and  when  at  last  by  six  o'clock  he  got 
home,  he  felt  excited  and  anxious,  as  though  he  had 
been  away  for  a  year.  He  would  run  upstairs 
breathless,  find  Masha,  throw  his  arms  round  her, 
and  kiss  her  and  swear  that  he  loved  her,  that  he 
could  not  live  without  her,  declare  that  he  had  missed 
her  fearfully,  and  ask  her  in  trepidation  how  she  was 
and  why  she  looked  so  depressed.  Then  they  would 
dine  together.  After  dinner  he  would  lie  on  the 
sofa  in  his  study  and  smoke,  while  she  sat  beside 
him  and  talked  in  a  low  voice. 

His  happiest  days  now  were  Sundays  and  holi- 
days, when  he  was  at  home  from  morning  till  eve- 
nine.  On  those  days  he  took  part  in  the  naive  but 
extraordinarily  pleasant  life  which  reminded  him  of 
a  pastoral  idyl.  He  was  never  weary  of  watching 
how  his  sensible  and  practical  Masha  was  arranging 
her  nest,  and  anxious  to  show  that  he  was  of  some 
use  in  the  house,  he  would  do  something  useless  - 
for  instance,  bring  the  chaise  out  of  the  stable  and 
look  at  it  from  every  side.  Masha  had  installed 
a  regular  dairy  with  three  cows,  and  in  her  cellar 
she  had  many  jugs  of  milk  and  pots  of  sour  cream, 
and  she  kept  it  all  for  butter.  Sometimes,  by  way  of 
a  joke,  Nikitin  would  ask  her  for  a  glass  of  milk, 
and  she  would  be  quite  upset  because  it  was  against 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        265 

her  rules;  but  he  would  laugh  and  throw  his  arms 
round  her,  saying : 

"  There,  there;  I  was  joking,  my  darling!  I  was 
joking!  " 

Or  he  would  laugh  at  her  strictness  when,  find- 
ing in  the  cupboard  some  stale  bit  of  cheese  or 
sausage  as  hard  as  a  stone,  she  would  say  seriously: 

"  They  will  eat  that  in  the  kitchen." 

He  would  observe  that  such  a  scrap  was  only 
fit  for  a  mousetrap,  and  she  would  reply  warmly 
that  men  knew  nothing  about  housekeeping,  and 
that  it  was  just  the  same  to  the  servants  if  you  were 
to  send  down  a  hundredweight  of  savouries  to  the 
kitchen.  He  would  agree,  and  embrace  her  enthu- 
siastically. Everything  that  was  just  in  what  she 
said  seemed  to  him  extraordinary  and  amazing;  and 
what  did  not  fit  in  with  his  convictions  seemed  to 
him  nai've  and  touching. 

Sometimes  he  was  in  a  philosophical  mood,  and 
he  would  begin  to  discuss  some  abstract  subject 
while  she  listened  and  looked  at  his  face  with  curi- 
osity. 

"  I  am  immensely  happy  with  you,  my  joy,"  he 
used  to  say,  playing  with  her  fingers  or  plaiting  and 
unplaiting  her  hair.  "  But  I  don't  look  upon  this 
happiness  of  mine  as  something  that  has  come  to  me 
by  chance,  as  though  it  had  dropped  from  heaven. 
This  happiness  is  a  perfectly  natural,  consistent,  log- 


266     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

ical  consequence.  I  believe  that  man  is  the  creator 
of  his  own  happiness,  and  now  I  am  enjoying  just 
what  I  have  myself  created.  Yes,  I  speak  without 
false  modesty:  I  have  created  this  happiness  myself 
and  I  have  a  right  to  it.  You  know  my  past.  My 
unhappy  childhood,  without  father  or  mother;  my 
depressing  youth,  poverty  —  all  this  was  a  struggle, 
all  this  was  the  path  by  which  I  made  my  way  to 
happiness.  .  .  ." 

In  October  the  school  sustained  a  heavy  loss: 
Ippolit  Ippolititch  was  taken  ill  with  erysipelas  on 
the  head  and  died.  For  two  days  before  his  death 
he  was  unconscious  and  delirious,  but  even  in  his 
delirium  he  said  nothing  that  w;as  not  perfectly  well 
known  to  every  one. 

'  The  Volga  flows  into  the  Caspian  Sea.  .  .  . 
Horses  eat  oats  and  hay.  .  .  ." 

There  were  no  lessons  at  the  high  school  on  the 
day  of  his  funeral.  His  colleagues  and  pupils  were 
the  coffin-bearers,  and  the  school  choir  sang  all  the 
way  to  the  grave  the  anthem  "  Holy  God."  Three 
priests,  two  deacons,  all  his  pupils  and  the  staff  of 
the  boys'  high  school,  and  the  bishop's  choir  in 
their  best  kaftans,  took  part  in  the  procession. 
And  passers-by  who  met  the  solemn  procession, 
crossed  themselves  and  said  : 

"  God  grant  us  all  such  a  death." 

Returning  home  from  the  cemetery  much  moved, 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        267 

Nikitin  got  out  his  diary  from  the  table  and  wrote: 
"  We  have  just  consigned  to  the  tomb  Ippolit 
Ippolititch  Ryzhitsky.  Peace  to  your  ashes,  mod- 
est worker!  Masha,  Varya,  and  all  the  women  at 
the  funeral,  wept  from  genuine  feeling,  perhaps  be- 
cause they  knew  this  uninteresting,  humble  man  had 
never  been  loved  by  a  woman.  I  wanted  to  say  a 
warm  word  at  my  colleague's  grave,  but  I  was 
warned  that  this  might  displease  the  director,  as  he 
did  not  like  our  poor  friend.  I  believe  that  this  is 
the  first  day  since  my  marriage  that  my  heart  has 
been  heavy." 

There  was  no  other  event  of  note  in  the  scholastic 
year. 

The  winter  was  mild,  with  wet  snow  and  no  frost; 
on  Epiphany  Eve,  for  instance,  the  wind  howled  all 
night  as  though  it  were  autumn,  and  water  trickled 
off  the  roofs ;  and  in  the  morning,  at  the  ceremony  of 
the  blessing  of  the  water,  the  police  allowed  no  one 
to  go  on  the  river,  because  they  said  the  ice  was 
swelling  up  and  looked  dark.  But  in  spite  of  bad 
weather  Nikitin's  life  was  as  happy  as  in  summer. 
And,  indeed,  he  acquired  another  source  of  pleasure; 
he  learned  to  play  vint.  Only  one  thing  troubled 
him,  moved  him  to  anger,  and  seemed  to  prevent  him 
from  being  perfectly  happy:  the  cats  and  dogs  which 
formed  part  of  his  wife's  dowry.  The  rooms, 
especially  in  the  morning,  always  smelt  like  a 


268     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

menagerie,  and  nothing  could  destroy  the  odour;  the 
cats  frequently  fought  with  the  dogs.  The  spiteful 
beast  Mushka  was  fed  a  dozen  times  a  day;  she  still 
refused  to  recognize  Nikitin  and  growled  at  him: 
"  Rrr  .  .  .  nga-nga-nga !  " 

One  night  in  Lent  he  was  returning  home  from  the 
club  where  he  had  been  playing  cards.  It  was  dark, 
raining,  and  muddy.  Nikitin  had  an  unpleasant 
feeling  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  and  could  not  ac- 
count for  it.  He  did  not  know  whether  it  was  be- 
cause he  had  lost  twelve  roubles  at  cards,  or  whether 
because  one  of  the  players,  when  they  were  settling 
up,  had  said  that  of  course  Nikitin  had  pots  of 
money,  with  obvious  reference  to  his  wife's  portion. 
He  did  not  regret  the  twelve  roubles,  and  there  was 
nothing  offensive  in  what  had  been  said;  but,  still, 
there  was  the  unpleasant  feeling.  He  did  not  even 
feel  a  desire  to  go  home. 

"  Foo,  how  horrid !  "  he  said,  standing  still  at  a 
lamp-post. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  did  not  regret  the  twelve 
roubles  because  he  got  them  for  nothing.  If  he  had 
been  a  working  man  he  would  have  known  the  value 
of  every  farthing,  and  would  not  have  been  so  care- 
less whether  he  lost  or  won.  And  his  good-fortune 
had  all,  he  reflected,  come  to  him  by  chance,  for  noth- 
ing, and  really  was  as  superfluous  for  him  as  medicine 
for  the  healthy.  If.  like  the  vast  majority  of  people, 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        269 

he  had  been  harassed  by  anxiety  for  his  daily  bread, 
had  been  struggling  for  existence,  if  his  back  and 
chest  had  ached  from  work,  then  supper,  a  warm 
snug  home,  and  domestic  happiness,  would  have  been 
the  necessity,  the  compensation,  the  crown  of  his  life; 
as  it  was,  all  this  had  a  strange,  indefinite  significance 
for  him. 

"  Foo,  how  horrid!  "  he  repeated,  knowing  per- 
fectly well  that  these  reflections  were  in  themselves 
a  bad  sign. 

When  he  got  home  Masha  wes  in  bed:  she  was 
breathing  evenly  and  smiling,  and  wag  evidently 
sleeping  with  great  enjoyment.  Near  her  the  white 
cat  lay  curled  up,  purring.  While  Nikitin  lit  the 
candle  and  lighted  his  cigarette,  Masha  woke  up  and 
greedily  drank  a  glass  of  water. 

"  I  ate  too  many  sweets,"  she  said,  and  laughed. 
"  Have  you  been  home?  "  she  asked  after  a  pause. 

"No." 

Nikitin  knew  already  that  Captain  Polyansky,  on 
whom  Varya  had  been  building  great  hopes  of  late, 
was  being  transferred  to  one  of  the  western  prov- 
inces, and  was  already  making  his  farewell  visits  in 
the  town,  and  so  it  was  depressing  at  his  father-in- 
law's. 

"  Varya  looked  in  this  evening,"  said  Masha, 
sitting  up.  "  She  did  not  say  anything,  but  one  could 
see  from  her  face  how  wretched  she  is,  poor  darling! 


270     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

I  can't  bear  Polyansky.  He  is  fat  and  bloated,  and 
when  he  walks  or  dances  his  cheeks  shake.  .  .  .  He 
is  not  a  man  I  would  choose.  But,  still,  I  did  think 
he  was  a  decent  person." 

"  I  think  he  is  a  decent  person  now,"  said  Nikitin. 

"  Then  why  has  he  treated  Varya  so  badly?  " 

"Why  badly?"  asked  Nikitin,  beginning  to  feel 
irritation  against  the  white  cat,  who  was  stretching 
and  arching  its  back.  "  As  far  as  I  know,  he  has 
made  no  proposal  and  has  given  her  no  promises." 

"  Then  why  was  he  so  often  at  the  house?  If  he 
didn't  mean  to  marry  her,  he  oughtn't  to  have  come." 

Nikitin  put  out  the  candle  and  got  into  bed.  But 
he  felt  disinclined  to  lie  down  and  to  sleep.  He  felt 
as  though  his  head  were  immense  and  empty  as  a 
barn,  and  that  new,  peculiar  thoughts  were  wander- 
ing about  in  it  like  tall  shadows.  He  thought  that, 
apart  from  the  soft  light  of  the  ikon  lamp,  that 
beamed  upon  their  quiet  domestic  happiness,  that 
apart  from  this  little  world  in  which  he  and  this  cat 
lived  so  peacefully  and  happily,  there  was  another 
world.  .  .  .  And  he  had  a  passionate,  poignant 
longing  to  be  in  that  other  world,  to  work  himself  at 
some  factory  or  big  workshop,  to  address  big  audi- 
ences, to  write,  to  publish,  to  raise  a  stir,  to  exhaust 
himself,  to  suffer.  .  .  .  He  wanted  something  that 
would  engross  him  till  he  forgot  himself,  ceased  to 
care  for  the  personal  happiness  which  yielded  him 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        271 

only  sensations  so  monotonous.  And  suddenly  there 
rose  vividly  before  his  imagination  the  figure  of 
Shebaldin  with  his  clean-shaven  face,  saying  to  him 
with  horror:  "You  haven't  even  read  Lessing! 
You  are  quite  behind  the  times!  How  you  have 
gone  to  seed!  " 

Masha  woke  up  and  again  drank  some  water. 
He  glanced  at  her  neck,  at  her  plump  shoulders  and 
throat,  and  remembered  the  word  the  brigadier- 
general  had  used  in  church  — "  rose." 

"  Rose,"  he  muttered,  and  laughed. 

His  laugh  was  answered  by  a  sleepy  growl 
from  Mushka  under  the  bed:  "  Rrr  .  .  .  nga-nga- 
nga  .  .  .  I  " 

A  heavy  anger  sank  like  a  cold  weight  on  his 
heart,  and  he  felt  tempted  to  say  something  rude 
to  Masha,  and  even  to  jump  up  and  hit  her;  his  heart 
began  throbbing. 

"  So  then,"  he  asked,  restraining  himself,  "  since 
I  went  to  your  house,  I  was  bound  in  duty  to  marry 
you?" 

''  Of  course.     You  know  that  very  well." 

"  That's  nice."  And  a  minute  later  he  repeated : 
"  That's  nice." 

To  relieve  the  throbbing  of  his  heart,  and  to  avoid 
saying  too  much,  Nikitin  went  to  his  study  and  lay 
down  on  the  sofa,  without  a  pillow;  then  he  lay  on 
the  floor  on  the  carpet. 


272     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  What  nonsense  it  is!  "  he  said  to  reassure  him- 
self. '  You  are  a  teacher,  you  are  working  in  the 
noblest  of  callings.  .  .  .  What  need  have  you  of  any 
other  world  ?  What  rubbish !  " 

But  almost  immediately  he  told  himself  with  con- 
viction that  he  was  not  a  real  teacher,  but  simply  a 
government  employe,  as  commonplace  and  mediocre 
as  the  Czech  who  taught  Greek.  He  had  never  had 
a  vocation  for  teaching,  he  knew  nothing  of  the  the- 
ory of  teaching,  and  never  had  been  interested  in  the 
subject;  he  did  not  know  how  to  treat  children;  he 
did  not  understand  the  significance  of  what  he  taught, 
and  perhaps  did  not  teach  the  right  things.  Poor 
Ippolit  Ippolititch  had  been  frankly  stupid,  and  all 
the  boys,  as  well  as  his  colleagues,  knew  what  he  was 
and  what  to  expect  from  him;  but  he,  Nikitin,  like 
the  Czech,  knew  how  to  conceal  his  stupidity  and 
cleverly  deceived  every  one  by  pretending  that,  thank 
God,  his  teaching  was  a  success.  These  new  ideas 
frightened  Nikitin;  he  rejected  them,  called  them  stu- 
pid, and  believed  that  all  this  was  due  to  his  nerves, 
that  he  would  laugh  at  himself. 

And  he  did,  in  fact,  by  the  morning  laugh  at 
himself  and  call  himself  an  old  woman;  but  it  was 
clear  to  him  that  Kis  peace  of  mind  was  lost,  perhaps, 
for  ever,  and  that  in  that  little  two-story  house  hap- 
piness was  henceforth  impossible  for  him.  He  real- 
ized that  the  illusion  had  evaporated,  and  that  a  new 


The  Teacher  of  Literature        273 

life  of  unrest  and  clear  sight  was  beginning  which 
was  incompatible  with  peace  and  personal  happiness. 

Next  day,  which  was  Sunday,  he  was  at  the  school 
chapel,  and  there  met  his  colleagues  and  the  director. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  they  were  entirely  preoccupied 
with  concealing  their  ignorance  and  discontent  with 
life,  and  he,  too,  to  conceal  his  uneasiness,  smiled 
affably  and  talked  of  trivialities.  Then  he  went  to 
the  station  and  saw  the  mail  train  come  in  and  go 
out,  and  it  was  agreeable  to  him  to  be  alone  and  not 
to  have  to  talk  to  any  one. 

At  home  he  found  Varya  and  his  father-in-law, 
who  had  come  to  dinner.  Varya's  eyes  were  red 
with  crying,  and  she  complained  of  a  headache,  while 
Shelestov  ate  a  great  deal,  saying  that  young  men 
nowadays  were  unreliable,  and  that  there  was  very 
little  gentlemanly  feeling  among  them. 

"  It's  loutishness!  "  he  said.  "  I  shall  tell  him  so 
to  his  face:  *  It's  loutishness,  sir,'  I  shall  say." 

Nikitin  smiled  affably  and  helped  Masha  to  look 
after  their  guests,  but  after  dinner  he  went  to  his 
study  and  shut  the  door. 

The  March  sun  was  shining  brightly  in  at  the 
windows  and  shedding  its  warm  rays  on  the  table. 
It  was  only  the  twentieth  of  the  month,  but  already 
the  cabmen  were  driving  with  wheels,  and  the  star- 
lings were  noisy  in  the  garden.  It  was  just  the 
weather  in  which  Masha  would  come  in,  put  one  arm 


274     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

round  his  neck,  tell  him  the  horses  were  saddled  or 
the  chaise  was  at  the  door,  and  ask  him  what  she 
should  put  on  to  keep  warm.  Spring  was  beginning 
as  exquisitely  as  last  spring,  and  it  promised  the  same 
joys.  .  .  .  But  Nikitin  was  thinking  that  it  would  be 
nice  to  take  a  holiday  and  go  to  Moscow,  and  stay 
at  his  old  lodgings  there.  In  the  next  room  they 
were  drinking  coffee  and  talking  of  Captain  Poly- 
ansky,  while  he  tried  not  to  listen  and  wrote  in  his 
diary:  "  Where  am  I,  my  God?  I  am  surrounded 
by  vulgarity  and  vulgarity.  Wearisome,  insignifi- 
cant people,  pots  of  sour  cream,  jugs  of  milk,  cock- 
roaches, stupid  women.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  more 
terrible,  mortifying,  and  distressing  than  vulgarity. 
I  must  escape  from  here,  I  must  escape  today,  or  I 
shall  go  out  of  my  mind !  " 


NOT  WANTED 


NOT  WANTED 

BETWEEN  six  and  seven  o'clock  on  a  July  evening, 
a  crowd  of  summer  visitors  —  mostly  fathers  of 
families  —  burdened  with  parcels,  portfolios,  and 
ladies'  hat-boxes,  was  trailing  along  from  the  little 
station  of  Helkovo,  in  the  direction  of  the  summer 
villas.  They  all  looked  exhausted,  hungry,  and  ill- 
humoured,  as  though  the  sun  were  not  shining  and  the 
grass  were  not  green  for  them. 

Trudging  along  among  the  others  was  Pavel 
Matveyitch  Zaikin,  a  member  of  the  Circuit  Court, 
a  tall,  stooping  man,  in  a  cheap  cotton  dust-coat  and 
with  a  cockade  on  his  faded  cap.  He  was  perspir- 
ing, red  in  the  face,  and  gloomy.  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  come  out  to  your  holiday  home  every 
day?  "  said  a  summer  visitor,  in  ginger-coloured 
trousers,  addressing  him. 

"  No,  not  every  day,"  Zaikin  answered  sullenly. 
"  My  wife  and  son  are  staying  here  all  the  while, 
and  I  come  down  two  or  three  times  a  week.  I 
haven't  time  to  come  every  day;  besides,  it  is  ex- 
pensive." 

"You're  right  there;  it  is  expensive,"  sighed  he 
277 


278     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

of  the  ginger  trousers.  "  In  town  you  can't  walk  to 
the  station,  you  have  to  take  a  cab;  and  then,  the 
ticket  costs  forty-two  kopecks;  you  buy  a  paper  for 
the  journey ;  one  is  tempted  to  drink  a  glass  of  vodka. 
It's  all  petty  expenditure  not  worth  considering,  but, 
mind  you,  in  the  course  of  the  summer  it  will  run  up 
to  some  two  hundred  roubles.  Of  course,  to  be  in 
the  lap  of  Nature  is  worth  any  money  —  I  don't  dis- 
pute it  ...  idyllic  and  all  the  rest  of  it;  but  of 
course,  with  the  salary  an  official  gets,  as  you  know 
yourself,  every  farthing  has  to  be  considered.  If 
you  waste  a  halfpenny  you  lie  awake  all  night.  .  .  . 
Yes  ...  I  receive,  my  dear  sir  —  I  haven't  the 
honour  of  knowing  your  name  —  I  receive  a  salary 
of  very  nearly  two  thousand  roubles  a  year.  I  am 
a  civil  councillor,  I  smoke  second-rate  tobacco,  and 
I  haven't  a  rouble  to  spare  to  buy  Vichy  water,  pre- 
scribed me  by  the  doctor  for  gall-stones." 

"  It's  altogether  abominable,"  said  Zaikin  after  a 
brief  silence.  "  I  maintain,  sir,  that  summer  holi- 
days are  the  invention  of  the  devil  and  of  woman. 
The  devil  was  actuated  in  the  present  instance  by 
malice,  woman  by  excessive  frivolity.  Mercy  on 
us,  it  is  not  life  at  all;  it  is  hard  labour,  it  is  hell! 
It's  hot  and  stifling,  you  can  hardly  breathe,  and  you 
wander  about  like  a  lost  soul  and  can  find  no  refuge. 
In  town  there  is  no  furniture,  no  servants  .  .  . 
everything  has  been  carried  off  to  the  villa :  you  eat 


Not  Wanted  279 

what  you  can  get;  you  go  without  your  tea  because 
there  is  no  one  to  heat  the  samovar;  you  can't  wash 
yourself;  and  when  you  come  down  here  into  this 
'  lap  of  Nature  '  you  have  to  walk,  if  you  please, 
through  the  dust  and  heat.  .  .  .  Phew !  Are  you 
married?  " 

'  Yes .  .  .  three  children,"  sighs  Ginger  Trousers. 

"  It's  abominable  altogether.  .  .  .  It's  a  wonder 
we  are  still  alive." 

At  last  the  summer  visitors  reached  their  destina- 
tion. Zaikin  said  good-bye  to  Ginger  Trousers  and 
went  into  his  villa.  He  found  a  death-like  silence  in 
the  house.  He  could  hear  nothing  but  the  buzzing 
of  the  gnats,  and  the  prayer  for  help  of  a  fly  destined 
for  the  dinner  of  a  spider.  The  windows  were  hung 
with  muslin  curtains,  through  which  the  faded  flow- 
ers of  the  geraniums  showed  red.  On  the  unpainted 
wooden  walls  near  the  oleographs  flies  were  slum- 
bering. There  was  not  a  soul  in  the  passage,  the 
kitchen,  or  the  dining-room.  In  the  room  which 
was  called  indifferently  the  parlour  or  the  drawing- 
room,  Zaikin  found  his  son  Petya,  a  little  boy  of  six. 
Petya  was  sitting  at  the  table,  and  breathing  loudly 
with  his  lower  lip  stuck  out,  was  engaged  in  cutting 
out  the  figure  of  a  knave  of  diamonds  from  a  card. 

"Oh,  that's  you,  father!  "  he  said,  without  turn- 
ing round.  "  Good-evening." 

"Good-evening.  .  .  .  And  where  is  mother?  " 


280     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  Mother?  She  is  gone  with  Olga  Kirillovna  to 
a  rehearsal  of  the  play.  The  day  after  tomorrow 
they  will  have  a  performance.  And  they  will  take 
me,  too.  .  .  .  And  will  you  go?  " 

"H'm!  .  .  .  When  is  she  coming  back?  " 

"  She  said  she  would  be  back  in  the  evening." 

"  And  where  is  Natalya?  " 

"  Mamma  took  Natalya  with  her  to  help  her  dress 
for  the  performance,  and  Akulina  has  gone  to  the 
wood  to  get  mushrooms.  Father,  why  is  it  that 
when  gnats  bite  you  their  stomachs  get  red?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Because  they  suck  blood. 
So  there  is  no  one  in  the  house,  then?  " 

"  No  one;  I  am  all  alone  in  the  house." 

Zaikin  sat  down  in  an  easy-chair,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment gazed  blankly  at  the  window. 

"  Who  is  going  to  get  our  dinner?  "  he  asked. 

"  They  haven't  cooked  any  dinner  today,  father. 
Mamma  thought  you  were  not  coming  today,  and  did 
not  order  any  dinner.  She  is  going  to  have  dinner 
with  Olga  Kirillovna  at  the  rehearsal." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  very  much;  and  you,  what  have 
you  to  eat?  " 

"  I've  had  some  milk.  They  bought  me  six 
kopecks'  worth  of  milk.  And,  father,  why  do  gnats 
suck  blood?  " 

Zaikin  suddenly  felt  as  though  something  heavy 
were  rolling  down  on  his  liver  and  beginning  to  gnaw 


Not  Wanted  281 

it.  He  felt  so  vexed,  so  aggrieved,  and  so  bitter, 
that  he  was  choking  and  tremulous;  he  wanted  to 
jump  up,  to  bang  something  on  the  floor,  and  to  burst 
into  loud  abuse ;  but  then  he  remembered  that  his  doc- 
tor had  absolutely  forbidden  him  all  excitement,  so 
he  got  up,  and  making  an  effort  to  control  himself, 
began  whistling  a  tune  from  "  Les  Huguenots." 

"  Father,  can  you  act  in  plays?  "  he  heard  Petya's 
voice. 

"  Oh,  don't  worry  me  with  stupid  questions !  "  said 
Zaikin,  getting  angry.  "  He  sticks  to  one  like  a  leaf 
in  the  bath!  Here  you  are,  six  years  old,  and  just 
as  silly  as  you  were  three  years  ago.  .  .  .  Stupid, 
neglected  child!  Why  are  you  spoiling  those  cards, 
for  instance?  How  dare  you  spoil  them?" 

"  These  cards  aren't  yours,"  said  Petya,  turning 
round.  "  Natalya  gave  them  me." 

'  You  are  telling  fibs,  you  are  telling  fibs,  you 
horrid  boy!  "  said  Zaikin,  growing  more  and  more 
irritated.  '  You  are  always  telling  fibs !  You  want 
a  whipping,  you  horrid  little  pig!  I  will  pull  your 
ears!" 

Petya  leapt  up,  and  craning  his  neck,  stared  fixedly 
at  his  father's  red  and  wrathful  face.  His  big  eyes 
first  began  blinking,  then  were  dimmed  with  mois- 
ture, and  the  boy's  face  began  working. 

"But  why  are  you  scolding?"  squealed  Petya. 
"Why  do  you  attack  me,  you  stupid?  I  am  not 


282     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

interfering  with  anybody;  I  am  not  naughty;  I  do 
what  I  am  told,  and  yet  .  .  .  you  are  cross !  Why 
are  you  scolding  me?  " 

The  boy  spoke  with  conviction,  and  wept  so  bit- 
terly that  Zaikin  felt  conscience-stricken. 

"  Yes,  really,  why  am  I  falling  foul  of  him?  "  he 
thought.  "  Come,  come,"  he  said,  touching  the  boy 
on  the  shoulder.  "  I  am  sorry,  Petya  .  .  .  forgive 
me.  You  are  my  good  boy,  my  nice  boy,  I  love 
you." 

Petya  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  sleeve,  sat  down, 
with  a  sigh,  in  the  same  place  and  began  cutting  out 
the  queen.  Zaikin  went  off  to  his  own  room.  He 
stretched  himself  on  the  sofa,  and  putting  his  hands 
behind  his  head,  sank  into  thought.  The  boy's  tears 
had  softened  his  anger,  and  by  degrees  the  oppres- 
sion on  his  liver  grew  less.  He  felt  nothing  but 
exhaustion  and  hunger. 

"  Father,"  he  heard  on  the  other  side  of  the  door, 
"  shall  I  show  you  my  collection  of  insects?  " 

"  Yes,  show  me." 

Petya  came  into  the  study  and  handed  his  father  a 
long  green  box.  Before  raising  it  to  his  ear  Zaikin 
could  hear  a  despairing  buzz  and  the  scratching  of 
claws  on  the  sides  of  the  box.  Opening  the  lid,  he 
saw  a  number  of  butterflies,  beetles,  grasshoppers, 
and  flies  fastened  to  the  bottom  of  the  box  with  pins. 


Not  Wanted  283 

All  except  two  or  three  butterflies  were  still  alive 
and  moving. 

"  Why,  the  grasshopper  is  still  alive!  "  said  Petya 
in  surprise.  "  I  caught  him  yesterday  morning,  and 
he  is  still  alive!  " 

"  Who  taught  you  to  pin  them  in  this  way?  " 

"  Olga  Kirillovna." 

"  Olga  Kirillovna  ought  to  be  pinned  down  like 
that  herself!  "  said  Zaikin  with  repulsion.  'Take 
them  away!  It's  shameful  to  torture  animals." 

"  My  God!  How  horribly  he  is  being  brought 
up !  "  he  thought,  as  Petya  went  out. 

Pavel  Matveyitch  forgot  his  exhaustion  and  hun- 
ger, and  thought  of  nothing  but  his  boy's  future. 
Meanwhile,  outside  the  light  was  gradually  fading. 
.  .  .  He  could  hear  the  summer  visitors  trooping 
back  from  the  evening  bathe.  Some  one  was  stop- 
ping near  the  open  dining-room  window  and  shout- 
ing: "  Do  you  want  any  mushrooms?  "  And  get- 
ting no  answer,  shuffled  on  with  bare  feet.  .  .  .  But 
at  last,  when  the  dusk  was  so  thick  that  the  outlines 
of  the  geraniums  behind  the  muslin  curtain  were  lost, 
and  whiffs  of  the  freshness  of  evening  were  coming 
in  at  the  window,  the  door  of  the  passage  was  thrown 
open  noisily,  and  there  came  a  sound  of  rapid  foot- 
steps, talk,  and  laughter.  .  .  . 

"  Mamma!  "  shrieked  Petya. 


284     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

Zaikin  peeped  out  of  his  study  and  saw  his  wife, 
Nadyezhda  Stepanova,  healthy  and  rosy  as  ever; 
with  her  he  saw  Olga  Kirillovna,  a  spare  woman 
with  fair  hair  and  heavy  freckles,  and  two  unknown 
men:  one  a  lanky  young  man  with  curly  red  hair 
and  a  big  Adam's  apple;  the  other,  a  short  stubby 
man  with  a  shaven  face  like  an  actor's  and  a  bluish 
crooked  chin. 

"  Natalya,  set  the  samovar,"  cried  Nadyezhda 
Stepanovna,  with  a  loud  rustle  of  her  skirts.  "  I 
hear  Pavel  Matveyitch  is  come.  Pavel,  where  are 
you?  Good-evening,  Pavel!  "  she  said,  running  into 
the  study  breathlessly.  "  So  you've  come.  I  am  so 
glad.  .  .  .  Two  of  our  amateurs  have  come  with 
me.  .  .  .  Come,  I'll  introduce  you.  .  .  .  Here,  the 
taller  one  is  Koromyslov  ...  he  sings  splendidly; 
and  the  other,  the  little  one  ...  is  called  Smerka- 
lov:  he  is  a  real  actor  ...  he  recites  magnificently. 
Oh,  how  tired  I  am!  We  have  just  had  a  re- 
hearsal. ...  It  goes  splendidly.  We  are  acting 
'  The  Lodger  with  the  Trombone  '  and  '  Waiting  for 
Him.'  .  .  .  The  performance  is  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. .  .  ." 

"  Why  did  you  bring  them?  "  asked  Zaikin. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  Poppet;  after  tea  we  must 
rehearse  our  parts  and  sing  something.  ...  I  am 
to  sing  a  duet  with  Koromyslov.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I  was 
almost  forgetting!  Darling,  send  Natalya  to  get 


Not  Wanted  285 

some  sardines,  vodka,  cheese,  and  something  else. 
They  will  most  likely  stay  to  supper.  .  .  .  Oh,  how 
tired  I  ami" 

"  H'm!     I've  no  money." 

"  You  must,  Poppet !  It  would  be  awkward  I 
Don't  make  me  blush." 

Half  an  hour  later  Natalya  was  sent  for  vodka 
and  savouries;  Zaikin,  after  drinking  tea  and  eating 
a  whole  French  loaf,  went  to  his  bedroom  and  lay 
down  on  the  bed,  while  Nadyezhda  Stepanovna  and 
her  visitors,  with  much  noise  and  laughter,  set  to 
work  to  rehearse  their  parts.  For  a  long  time  Pavel 
Matveyitch  heard  Koromyslov's  nasal  reciting  and 
Smerkalov's  theatrical  exclamations.  .  .  .  The  re- 
hearsal was  followed  by  a  long  conversation,  inter- 
rupted by  the  shrill  laughter  of  Olga  Kirillovna. 
Smerkalov,  as  a  real  actor,  explained  the  parts  with 
aplomb  and  heat.  .  .  . 

Then  followed  the  duet,  and  after  the  duet  there 
was  the  clatter  of  crockery.  .  .  .  Through  his 
drowsiness  Zaikin  heard  them  persuading  Smerka- 
lov to  read  "  The  Woman  who  was  a  Sinner,"  and 
heard  him,  after  affecting  to  refuse,  begin  to  recite. 
He  hissed,  beat  himself  on  the  breast,  wept,  laughed 
in  a  husky  bass.  .  .  .  Zaikin  scowled  and  hid  his 
head  under  the  quilt. 

"  It's  a  long  way  for  you  to  go,  and  it's  dark,"  he 
heard  Nadyezhda  Stepanovna's  voice  an  hour  later. 


286     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  Why  shouldn't  you  stay  the  night  here?  Koromy- 
slov  can  sleep  here  in  the  drawing-room  on  the  sofa, 
and  you,  Smerkalov,  in  Petya's  bed.  ...  I  can  put 
Petya  in  my  husband's  study.  .  .  .  Do  stay,  really !  " 

At  last  when  the  clock  was  striking  two,  all  was 
hushed,  the  bedroom  door  opened,  and  Nadyezhda 
Stepanovna  appeared. 

"  Pavel,  are  you  asleep?  "  she  whispered. 

"No;  why?" 

"  Go  into  your  study,  darling,  and  lie  on  the  sofa. 
I  am  going  to  put  Olga  Kirillovna  here,  in  your  bed. 
Do  go,  dear !  I  would  put  her  to  sleep  in  the  study, 
but  she  is  afraid  to  sleep  alone.  .  .  .  Do  get  up !  " 

Zaikin  got  up,  threw  on  his  dressing-gown,  and 
taking  his  pillow,  crept  wearily  to  the  study.  .  .  . 
Feeling  his  way  to  his  sofa,  he  lighted  a  match,  and 
saw  Petya  lying  on  the  sofa.  The  boy  was  not 
asleep,  and,  looking  at  the  match  with  wide-open 
eyes: 

"  Father,  why  is  it  gnats  don't  go  to  sleep  at 
night?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  you  and  I  are  not 
wanted.  .  .  .  We  have  nowhere  to  sleep  even." 

"  Father,  and  why  is  it  Olga  Kirillovna  has 
freckles  on  her  face?  " 

"  Oh,  shut  up !     I  am  tired  of  you." 

After  a  moment's  thought,  Zaikin  dressed  and 
went  out  into  the  street  for  a  breath  of  air. 


Not  Wanted  287 

He  looked  at  the  grey  morning  sky,  at  the  motion- 
less clouds,  heard  the  lazy  call  of  the  drowsy  corn- 
crake, and  began  dreaming  of  the  next  day,  when 
he  would  go  to  town,  and  coming  back  from  the  court 
would  tumble  into  bed.  .  .  .  Suddenly  the  figure  of 
a  man  appeared  round  the  corner. 

"  A  watchman,  no  doubt,"  thought  Zaikin. 

But  going  nearer  and  looking  more  closely  he 
recognized  in  the  figure  the  summer  visitor  in  the 
ginger  trousers. 

"  You're  not  asleep?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  I  can't  sleep,"  sighed  Ginger  Trousers. 
"  I  am  enjoying  Nature.  ...  A  welcome  visitor, 
my  wife's  mother,  arrived  by  the  night  train,  you 
know.  She  brought  with  her  our  nieces  .  .  .  splen- 
did girls!  I  was  delighted  to  see  them,  although 
.  .  .  it's  very  damp !  And  you,  too,  are  enjoying 
Nature?" 

'  Yes,"  grunted  Zaikin,  "  I  am  enjoying  it,  too. 
.  .  .  Do  you  know  whether  there  is  any  sort  of 
tavern  or  restaurant  in  the  neighbourhood?  " 

Ginger  Trousers  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  and 
meditated  profoundly. 


(TYPHUS 


TYPHUS 

A  YOUNG  lieutenant  called  Klimov  was  travelling 
from  Petersburg  to  Moscow  in  a  smoking  carriage 
of  the  mail  train.  Opposite  him  was  sitting  an 
elderly  man  with  a  shaven  face  like  a  sea  captain's, 
by  all  appearances  a  well-to-do  Finn  or  Swede.  He 
pulled  at  his  pipe  the  whole  journey  and  kept  talking 
about  the  same  subject: 

"  Ha,  you  are  an  officer !     I  have  a  brother  an 
officer  too,  only  he  is  a  naval  officer.  .  .  .  He  is  a 
naval   officer,    and   he    is    stationed   at   Kronstadt. 
Why  are  you  going  to  Moscow?" 
"  I  am  serving  there." 
"  Ha !     And  are  you  a  family  man?  " 
"  No,  I  live  with  my  sister  and  aunt." 
"  My  brother's   an   officer,   only  he    is   a   naval 
officer;  he  has  a  wife  and  three  children.     Ha!  " 

The  Finn  seemed  continually  surprised  at  some- 
thing, and  gave  a  broad  idiotic  grin  when  he  ex- 
claimed "  Ha !  "  and  continually  puffed  at  his  stink- 
ing pipe.  Klimov,  who  for  some  reason  did  not  feel 
well,  and  found  it  burdensome  to  answer  questions, 
hated  him  with  all  his  heart.  He  dreamed  of  how 

291 


292     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

nice  it  would  be  to  snatch  the  wheezing  pipe  out  of 
his  hand  and  fling  it  under  the  seat,  and  drive  the 
Finn  himself  into  another  compartment. 

"  Detestable  people  these  Finns  and  .  .  .  Greeks," 
he  thought.  "  Absolutely  superfluous,  useless,  de- 
testable people.  They  simply  fill  up  space  on  the 
earthly  globe.  What  are  they  for?  " 

And  the  thought  of  Finns  and  Greeks  produced  a 
feeling  akin  to  sickness  all  over  his  body.  For  the 
sake  of  comparison  he  tried  to  think  of  the  French, 
of  the  Italians,  but  his  efforts  to  think  of  these 
people  evoked  in  his  mind,  for  some  reason,  nothing 
but  images  of  organ-grinders,  naked  women,  and  the 
foreign  oleographs  which  hung  over  the  chest  of 
drawers  at  home,  at  his  aunt's. 

Altogether  the  officer  felt  in  an  abnormal  state. 
He  could  not  arrange  his  arms  and  legs  comfortably 
on  the  seat,  though  he  had  the  whole  seat  to  him- 
self. His  mouth  felt  dry  and  sticky;  there  was  a 
heavy  fog  in  his  brain;  his  thoughts  seemed  to  be 
straying,  not  only  within  his  head,  but  outside  his 
skull,  among  the  seats  and  the  people  that  were 
shrouded  in  the  darkness  of  night.  Through  the 
mist  in  his  brain,  as  through  a  dream,  he  heard  the 
murmur  of  voices,  the  rumble  of  wheels,  the  slam- 
ming of  doors.  The  sounds  of  the  bells,  the 
whistles,  the  guards,  the  running  to  and  fro  of  pas- 
sengers on  the  platforms,  seemed  more  frequent 


Typhus  293 

than  usual.  The  time  flew  by  rapidly,  impercept- 
ibly, and  so  it  seemed  as  though  the  train  were  stop- 
ping at  stations  every  minute,  and  metallic  voices 
crying  continually: 

"  Is  the  mail  ready?  " 

"  Yes !  "  was  repeatedly  coming  from  outside. 

It  seemed  as  though  the  man  in  charge  of  the 
heating  came  in  too  often  to  look  at  the  thermometer, 
that  the  noise  of  trains  going  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion and  the  rumble  of  the  wheels  over  the  bridges 
was  incessant.  The  noise,  the  whistles,  the  Finn, 
the  tobacco  smoke  —  all  this  mingling  with  the 
menace  and  flickering  of  the  misty  images  in  his 
brain,  the  shape  and  character  of  which  a  man  in 
health  can  never  recall,  weighed  upon  Klimov  like 
an  unbearable  nightmare.  In  horrible  misery  he 
lifted  his  heavy  head,  looked  at  the  lamp  in  the  rays 
of  which  shadows  and  misty  blurs  seemed  to  be  danc- 
ing. He  wanted  to  ask  for  water,  but  his  parched 
tongue  would  hardly  move,  and  he  scarcely  had 
strength  to  answer  the  Finn's  questions.  He  tried 
to  lie  down  more  comfortably  and  go  to  sleep,  but 
he  could  not  succeed.  The  Finn  several  times  fell 
asleep,  woke  up  again,  lighted  his  pipe,  addressed 
him  with  his  "  Ha!  "  and  went  to  sleep  again;  and 
still  the  lieutenant's  legs  could  not  get  into  a  com- 
fortable position,  and  still  the  menacing  images  stood 
facing  him. 


294     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

At  Spirovo  he  went  out  into  the  station  for  a 
drink  of  water.  He  saw  people  sitting  at  the  table 
and  hurriedly  eating. 

"  And  how  can  they  eat!  "  he  thought,  trying  not 
to  sniff  the  air,  that  smelt  of  roast  meat,  and  not  to 
look  at  the  munching  mouths  —  they  both  seemed  to 
him  sickeningly  disgusting. 

A  good-looking  lady  was  conversing  loudly  with 
a  military  man  in  a  red  cap,  and  showing  magnificent 
white  teeth  as  she  smiled;  and  the  smile,  and  the 
teeth,  and  the  lady  herself  made  on  Klimov  the 
same  revolting  impression  as  the  ham  and  the  ris- 
soles. He  could  not  understand  how  it  was  the 
military  man  in  the  red  cap  was  not  ill  at  ease,  sit- 
ting beside  her  and  looking  at  her  healthy,  smiling 
face. 

When  after  drinking  some  water  he  went  back  to 
his  carriage,  the  Finn  was  sitting  smoking;  his  pipe 
was  wheezing  and  squelching  like  a  golosh  with  holes 
in  it  in  wet  weather. 

"Ha!"  he  said,  surprised;  "what  station  is 
this?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Klimov,  lying  down 
and  shutting  his  mouth  that  he  might  not  breathe  the 
acrid  tobacco  smoke. 

"  And  when  shall  we  reach  Tver?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Excuse  me,  I  ...  I  can't 
answer.  I  am  ill.  I  caught  cold  today." 


Typhus  295 

The  Finn  knocked  his  pipe  against  the  window- 
frame  and  began  talking  of  his  brother,  the  naval 
officer.  Klimov  no  longer  heard  him;  he  was  think- 
ing miserably  of  his  soft,  comfortable  bed,  of  a  bot- 
tle of  cold  water,  of  his  sister  Katya,  who  was  so 
good  at  making  one  comfortable,  soothing,  giving 
one  water.  He  even  smiled  when  the  vision  of  his 
orderly  Pavel,  taking  off  his  heavy  stifling  boots  and 
putting  water  on  the  little  table,  flitted  through  his 
imagination.  He  fancied  that  if  he  could  only  get 
into  his  bed,  have  a  drink  of  water,  his  nightmare 
would  give  place  to  sound  healthy  sleep. 

u  Is  the  mail  ready?  "  a  hollow  voice  reached  him 
from  the  distance. 

'  Yes,"  answered  a  bass  voice  almost  at  the  win- 
dow. 

It  was  already  the  second  or  third  station  from 
Spirovo. 

The  time  was  flying  rapidly  in  leaps  and  bounds, 
and  it  seemed  as  though  the  bells,  whistles,  and  stop- 
pings would  never  end.  In  despair  Klimov  buried 
his  face  in  the  corner  of  the  seat,  clutched  his  head 
in  his  hands,  and  began  again  thinking  of  his  sister 
Katya  and  his  orderly  Pavel,  but  his  sister  and  his 
orderly  were  mixed  up  with  the  misty  images  in  his 
brain,  whirled  round,  and  disappeared.  His  burn- 
ing breath,  reflected  from  the  back  of  the  seat, 
seemed  to  scald  his  face;  his  legs  were  uncomfort- 


296     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

able;  there  was  a  draught  from  the  window  on  his 
back;  but,  however  wretched  he  was,  he  did  not 
want  to  change  his  position.  ...  A  heavy  night- 
marish lethargy  gradually  gained  possession  of  him 
and  fettered  his  limbs. 

When  he  brought  himself  to  raise  his  head,  it  was 
already  light  in  the  carriage.  The  passengers  were 
putting  on  their  fur  coats  and  moving  about.  The 
train  was  stopping.  Porters  in  white  aprons  and 
with  discs  on  their  breasts  were  bustling  among  the 
passengers  and  snatching  up  their  boxes.  Klimov 
put  on  his  great-coat,  mechanically  followed  the 
other  passengers  out  of  the  carriage,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  not  he,  but  some  one  else  was  moving, 
and  he  felt  that  his  fever,  his  thirst,  and  the  menac- 
ing images  which  had  not  let  him  sleep  all  night, 
came  out  of  the  carriage  with  him.  Mechanically 
he  took  his  luggage  and  engaged  a  sledge-driver. 
The  man  asked  him  for  a  rouble  and  a  quarter  to 
drive  to  Povarsky  Street,  but  he  did  not  haggle, 
and  without  protest  got  submissively  into  the  sledge. 
He  still  understood  the  difference  of  numbers,  but 
money  had  ceased  to  have  any  value  to  him. 

At  home  Klimov  was  met  by  his  aunt  and  his  sister 
Katya,  a  girl  of  eighteen.  When  Katya  greeted  him 
she  had  a  pencil  and  exercise  book  in  her  hand,  and 
he  remembered  that  she  was  preparing  for  an  exam- 
ination as  a  teacher.  Gasping  with  fever,  he  walked 


Typhus  297 

aimlessly  through  all  the  rooms  without  answering 
their  questions  or  greetings,  and  when  he  reached  his 
bed  he  sank  down  on  the  pillow.  The  Finn,  the  red 
cap,  the  lady  with  the  white  teeth,  the  smell  of  roast 
meat,  the  flickering  blurs,  filled  his  consciousness,  and 
by  now  he  did  not  know  where  he  was  and  did  not 
hear  the  agitated  voices. 

When  he  recovered  consciousness  he  found  him- 
self in  bed,  undressed,  saw  a  bottle  of  water  and 
Pavel,  but  it  was  no  cooler,  nor  softer,  nor  more 
comfortable  for  that.  His  arms  and  legs,  as  before, 
refused  to  lie  comfortably;  his  tongue  stuck  to  the 
roof  of  his  mouth,  and  he  heard  the  wheezing  of  the 
Finn's  pipe.  ...  A  stalwart,  black-bearded  doctor 
was  busy  doing  something  beside  the  bed,  brushing 
against  Pavel  with  his  broad  back. 

"  It's  all  right,  it's  all  right,  young  man," 
he  muttered.  "  Excellent,  excellent  .  .  .  goo-od, 
goo-od  ...  !  " 

The  doctor  called  Klimov  "  young  man,"  said 
"  goo-od  "  instead  of  "  good  "  and  "  so-o  "  instead 
of  "  so." 

"  So-o  .  .  .  so-o  .  .  .  so-o,"  he  murmured. 
"  Goo-od,  goo-od  ...  I  Excellent,  young  man. 
.  .  .  You  mustn't  lose  heart!  " 

The  doctor's  rapid,  careless  talk,  his  well-fed 
countenance,  and  condescending  "  young  man,"  irri- 
tated Klimov. 


298     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"Why  do  you  call  me  'young  man'?"  he 
moaned.  "What  familiarity!  Damn  it  all!" 

And  he  was  frightened  by  his  own  voice.  The 
voice  was  so  dried  up,  so  weak  and  peevish,  that  he 
would  not  have  known  it. 

"  Excellent,  excellent!  "  muttered  the  doctor,  not 
in  the  least  offended.  ..."  You  mustn't  get  angry, 
so-o,  so-o,  so-o.  .  .  ." 

And  the  time  flew  by  at  home  with  the  same 
startling  swiftness  as  in  the  railway  carriage.  .  .  . 
The  daylight  was  continually  being  replaced  by  the 
dusk  of  evening.  The  doctor  seemed  never  to  leave 
his  bedside,  and  he  heard  at  every  moment  his  "  so-o, 
so-o,  so-o."  A  continual  succession  of  people  was  in- 
cessantly crossing  the  bedroom.  Among  them  were : 
Pavel,  the  Finn,  Captain  Yaroshevitch,  Lance- 
Corporal  Maximenko,  the  red  cap,  the  lady  with  the 
white  teeth,  the  doctor.  They  were  all  talking  and 
waving  their  arms,  smoking  and  eating.  Once  by 
daylight  Klimov  saw  the  chaplain  of  the  regiment, 
Father  Alexandr,  who  was  standing  before  the  bed, 
wearing  a  stole  and  with  a  prayer-book  in  his  hand. 
He  was  muttering  something  with  a  grave  face  such 
as  Klimov  had  never  seen  in  him  before.  The  lieu- 
tenant remembered  that  Father  Alexandr  used  in  a 
friendly  way  to  call  all  the  Catholic  officers  "  Poles," 
and  wanting  to  amuse  him,  he  cried: 


Typhus  299 

"  Father,  Yaroshevitch  the  Pole  has  climbed  up 
a  pole!" 

But  Father  Alexandr,  a  light-hearted  man  who 
loved  a  joke,  did  not  smile,  but  became  graver  than 
ever,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  Klimov. 
At  night-time  by  turn  two  shadows  came  noiselessly 
in  and  out;  they  were  his  aunt  and  sister.  His  sis- 
ter's shadow  knelt  down  and  prayed;  she  bowed 
down  to  the  ikon,  and  her  grey  shadow  on  the  wall 
bowed  down  too,  so  that  two  shadows  were  praying. 
The  whole  time  there  was  a  smell  of  roast  meat  and 
the  Finn's  pipe,  but  once  Klimov  smelt  the  strong 
smell  of  incense.  He  felt  so  sick  he  could  not  lie 
still,  and  began  shouting: 

"  The  incense!     Take  away  the  incense!  " 

There  was  no  answer.  He  could  only  hear  the 
subdued  singing  of  the  priest  somewhere  and  some 
one  running  upstairs. 

When  Klimov  came  to  himself  there  was  not  a 
soul  in  his  bedroom.  The  morning  sun  was  stream- 
ing in  at  the  window  through  the  lower  blind,  and 
a  quivering  sunbeam,  bright  and  keen  as  the  sword's 
edge,  was  flashing  on  the  glass  bottle.  He  heard 
the  rattle  of  wheels  —  so  there  was  no  snow  now  in 
the  street.  The  lieutenant  looked  at  the  ray,  at 
the  familiar  furniture,  at  the  door,  and  the  first 
thing  he  did  was  to  laugh.  His  chest  and  stomach 


300     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

heaved  with  delicious,  happy,  tickling  laughter. 
His  whole  body  from  head  to  foot  was  overcome 
by  a  sensation  of  infinite  happiness  and  joy  in  life, 
such  as  the  first  man  must  have  felt  when  he  was 
created  and  first  saw  the  world.  Klimov  felt  a  pas- 
sionate desire  for  movement,  people,  talk.  His  body 
lay  a  motionless  block;  only  his  hands  stirred,  but 
that  he  hardly  noticed,  and  his  whole  attention  was 
concentrated  on  trifles.  He  rejoiced  in  his  breath- 
ing, in  his  laughter,  rejoiced  in  the  existence  of  the 
water-bottle,  the  ceiling,  the  sunshine,  the  tape  on 
the  curtains.  God's  world,  even  in  the  narrow  space 
of  his  bedroom,  seemed  beautiful,  varied,  grand. 
When  the  doctor  made  his  appearance,  the  lieutenant 
was  thinking  what  a  delicious  thing  medicine  was, 
how  charming  and  pleasant  the  doctor  was,  and  how 
nice  and  interesting  people  were  in  general. 

"  So-o,  so,  so.  ...  Excellent,  excellent!  .  .  . 
Now  we  are  well  again.  .  .  .  Goo-od,  goo-od!  "  the 
doctor  pattered. 

The  lieutenant  listened  and  laughed  joyously; 
he  remembered  the  Finn,  the  lady  with  the  white 
teeth,  the  train,  and  he  longed  to  smoke,  to  eat. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  tell  them  to  give  me  a  crust 
of  rye  bread  and  salt,  and  .  .  .  and  sardines." 

The  doctor  refused;  Pavel  did  not  obey  the  order, 
and  did  not  go  for  the  bread.  The  lieutenant  could 
not  bear  this  and  began  crying  like  a  naughty  child. 


Typhus  30 1 

"Baby!"  laughed  the  doctor.  "Mammy,  bye- 
bye!" 

Klimov  laughed,  too,  and  when  the  doctor  went 
away  he  fell  into  a  sound  sleep.  He  woke  up  with 
the  same  joyfulness  and  sensation  of  happiness. 
His  aunt  was  sitting  near  the  bed. 

"  Well,  aunt,"  he  said  joyfully.  "  What  has  been 
the  matter?  " 

"  Spotted  typhus." 

"Really.  But  now  I  am  well,  quite  well! 
Where  is  Katya?  " 

"  She  is  not  at  home.  I  suppose  she  has  gone 
somewhere  from  her  examination." 

The  old  lady  said  this  and  looked  at  her  stocking; 
her  lips  began  quivering,  she  turned  away,  and  sud- 
denly broke  into  sobs.  Forgetting  the  doctor's  pro- 
hibition in  her  despair,  she  said: 

"Ah,  Katya,  Katya!  Our  angel  is  gone!  Is 
gone !  " 

She  dropped  her  stocking  and  bent  down  to  it, 
and  as  she  did  so  her  cap  fell  off  her  head.  Looking 
at  her  grey  head  and  understanding  nothing,  Kli- 
mov was  frightened  for  Katya,  and  asked: 

"  Where  is  she,  aunt?  " 

The  old  woman,  who  had  forgotten  Klimov  and 
was  thinking  only  of  her  sorrow,  said: 

"  She  caught  typhus  from  you,  and  is  dead.  She 
was  buried  the  day  before  yesterday." 


302     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

This  terrible,  unexpected  news  was  fully  grasped 
by  Klimov's  consciousness;  but  terrible  and  star- 
tling as  it  was,  it  could  not  overcome  the  animal 
joy  that  filled  the  convalescent.  He  cried  and 
laughed,  and  soon  began  scolding  because  they  would 
not  let  him  eat. 

Only  a  week  later  when,  leaning  on  Pavel,  he  went 
in  his  dressing-gown  to  the  window,  looked  at  the 
overcast  spring  sky  and  listened  to  the  unpleasant 
clang  of  the  old  iron  rails  which  were  being  carted 
by,  his  heart  ached,  he  burst  into  tears,  and  leaned 
his  forehead  against  the  window-frame. 

"How  miserable  I  am!"  he  muttered.  "My 
God,  how  miserable  !  " 

And  joy  gave  way  to  the  boredom  of  everyday 
life  and  the  feeling  of  his  irrevocable  loss. 


A  MISFORTUNE 


A  MISFORTUNE 

SOFYA  PETROVNA,  the  wife  of  Lubyantsev  the  no- 
tary, a  handsome  young  woman  of  five-and-twenty, 
was  walking  slowly  along  a  track  that  had  been 
cleared  in  the  wood,  with  Ilyin,  a  lawyer  who  was 
spending  the  summer  in  the  neighbourhood.  It  was 
five  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Feathery-white  masses 
of  cloud  stood  overhead;  patches  of  bright  blue  sky 
peeped  out  between  them.  The  clouds  stood  mo- 
tionless, as  though  they  had  caught  in  the  tops  of  the 
tall  old  pine-trees.  It  was  still  and  sultry. 

Farther  on,  the  track  was  crossed  by  a  low  rail- 
way embankment  on  which  a  sentinel  with  a  gun  was 
for  some  reason  pacing  up  and  down.  Just  beyond 
the  embankment  there  was  a  large  white  church  with 
six  domes  and  a  rusty  roof. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  meet  you  here,"  said  Sofya 
Petrovna,  looking  at  the  ground  and  prodding  at 
the  last  year's  leaves  with  the  tip  of  her  parasol, 
"  and  now  I  am  glad  we  have  met.  I  want  to  speak 
to  you  seriously  and  once  for  all.  I  beg  you,  Ivan 
Mihalovitch,  if  you  really  love  and  respect  me, 
please  make  an  end  of  this  pursuit  of  me !  You  fol- 
low me  about  like  a  shadow,  you  are  continually 

305 


306     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

looking  at  me  not  in  a  nice  way,  making  love  to  me, 
writing  me  strange  letters,  and  .  .  .  and  I  don't 
know  where  it's  all  going  to  end !  Why,  what  can 
come  of  it?  " 

Ilyin  said  nothing.  Sofya  Petrovna  walked  on  a 
few  steps  and  continued: 

"  And  this  complete  transformation  in  you  all 
came  about  in  the  course  of  two  or  three  weeks, 
after  five  years'  friendship.  I  don't  know  you,  Ivan 
Mihalovitch!  " 

Sofya  Petrovna  stole  a  glance  at  her  companion. 
Screwing  up  his  eyes,  he  was  looking  intently  at 
the  fluffy  clouds.  His  face  looked  angry,  ill-hu- 
moured, and  preoccupied,  like  that  of  a  man  in  pain 
forced  to  listen  to  nonsense. 

"  I  wonder  you  don't  see  it  yourself,"  Madame 
Lubyantsev  went  on,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 
"  You  ought  to  realize  that  it's  not  a  very  nice  part 
you  are  playing.  I  am  married;  I  love  and  respect 
my  husband.  ...  I  have  a  daughter.  .  .  .  Can 
you  think  all  that  means  nothing?  Besides,  as  an 
old  friend  you  know  my  attitude  to  family  life  and 
my  views  as  to  the  sanctity  of  marriage." 

Ilyin  cleared  his  throat  angrily  and  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  Sanctity  of  marriage  .  .  ."  he  muttered.  "  Oh, 
Lord!" 

"  Yes,  yes.  ...  I  love  my  husband,  I  respect 
him;  and  in  any  case  I  value  the  peace  of  my  home. 


A  Misfortune  307 

I  would  rather  let  myself  be  killed  than  be  a  cause 
of  unhappiness  to  Andrey  and  his  daughter.  .  .  . 
And  I  beg  you,  Ivan  Mihalovitch,  for  God's  sake, 
leave  me  in  peace!  Let  us  be  as  good,  true  friends 
as  we  used  to  be,  and  give  up  these  sighs  and  groans, 
which  really  don't  suit  you.  It's  settled  and  over! 
Not  a  word  more  about  it.  Let  us  talk  of  something 
else." 

Sofya  Petrovna  again  stole  a  glance  at  Ilyin's 
face.  Ilyin  was  looking  up;  he  was  pale,  and  was 
angrily  biting  his  quivering  lips.  She  could  not  un- 
derstand why  he  was  angry  and  why  he  was  indig- 
nant, but  his  pallor  touched  her. 

"  Don't  be  angry;  let  us  be  friends,"  she  said 
affectionately.  "Agreed?  Here's  my  hand." 

Ilyin  took  her  plump  little  hand  in  both  of  his, 
squeezed  it,  and  slowly  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"  I  am  not  a  schoolboy,"  he  muttered.  "  I  am 
not  in  the  least  tempted  by  friendship  with  the  woman 
I  love." 

"Enough,  enough!  It's  settled  and  done  with. 
We  have  reached  the  seat;  let  us  sit  down." 

Sofya  Petrovna's  soul  was  filled  with  a  sweet 
sense  of  relief:  the  most  difficult  and  delicate  thing 
had  been  said,  the  painful  question  was  settled  and 
done  with.  Now  she  could  breathe  freely  and  look 
Ilyin  straight  in  the  face.  She  looked  at  him,  and 
the  egoistic  feeling  of  the  superiority  of  the  woman 


308     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

over  the  man  who  loves  her,  agreeably  flattered  her. 
It  pleased  her  to  see  this  huge,  strong  man,  with  his 
manly,  angry  face  and  his  big  black  beard  —  clever, 
cultivated,  and,  people  said,  talented  —  sit  down 
obediently  beside  her  and  bow  his  head  dejectedly. 
For  two  or  three  minutes  they  sat  without  speaking. 

"  Nothing  is  settled  or  done  with,"  began  Ilyin. 
"  You  repeat  copy-book  maxims  to  me.  '  I  love 
and  respect  my  husband  .  .  .  the  sanctity  of  mar- 
riage. .  .  .'  I  know  all  that  without  your  help, 
and  I  could  tell  you  more,  too.  I  tell  you  truthfully 
and  honestly  that  I  consider  the  way  I  am  behaving 
as  criminal  and  immoral.  What  more  can  one  say 
than  that?  But  what's  the  good  of  saying  what 
everybody  knows?  Instead  of  feeding  nightingales 
with  paltry  words,  you  had  much  better  tell  me  what 
I  am  to  do." 

"  I've  told  you  already  —  go  away." 

"  As  you  know  perfectly  well,  I  have  gone  away 
five  times,  and  every  time  I  turned  back  on  the  way. 
I  can  show  you  my  through  tickets  —  I've  kept  them 
all.  I  have  not  will  enough  to  run  away  from  you ! 
I  am  struggling.  I  am  struggling  horribly;  but  what 
the  devil  am  I  good  for  if  I  have  no  backbone,  if 
I  am  weak,  cowardly!  I  can't  struggle  with  Na- 
ture! Do  you  understand?  I  cannot!  I  run 
away  from  here,  and  she  holds  on  to  me  and  pulls 
me  back.  Contemptible,  loathsome  weakness!  " 


A  Misfortune  309 

Ilyin  flushed  crimson,  got  up,  and  walked  up  and 
down  by  the  seat. 

"  I  feel  as  cross  as  a  dog,"  he  muttered,  clench- 
ing his  fists.  "I  hate  and  despise  myself!  My 
God!  like  some  depraved  schoolboy,  I  am  making 
love  to  another  man's  wife,  writing  idiotic  letters, 
degrading  myself  .  .  .  ugh !  " 

Ilyin  clutched  at  his  head,  grunted,  and  sat  down. 

"And  then  your  insincerity!"  he  went  on  bit- 
terly. "  If  you  do  dislike  my  disgusting  behaviour, 
why  have  you  come  here?  What  drew  you  here? 
In  my  letters  I  only  ask  you  for  a  direct,  definite  an- 
swer—  yes  or  no;  but  instead  of  a  direct  answer, 
you  contrive  every  day  these  '  chance  '  meetings  with 
me  and  regale  me  with  copy-book  maxims !  " 

Madame  Lubyantsev  was  frightened  and  flushed. 
She  suddenly  felt  the  awkwardness  which  a  decent 
woman  feels  when  she  is  accidentally  discovered  un- 
dressed. 

u  You  seem  to  suspect  I  am  playing  with  you," 
she  muttered.  "  I  have  always  given  you  a  direct 
answer,  and  .  .  .  only  today  I've  begged  you  .  .  ." 

"  Ough !  as  though  one  begged  in  such  cases !  If 
you  were  to  say  straight  out  '  Get  away,'  I  should 
have  been  gone  long  ago ;  but  you've  never  said  that. 
You've  never  once  given  me  a  direct  answer. 
Strange  indecision!  Yes,  indeed;  either  you  are 
playing  with  me,  or  else  .  .  ." 


310     The  Party  and  Other  Stones 

Ilyin  leaned  his  head  on  his  fists  without  finish- 
ing. Sofya  Petrovna  began  going  over  in  her  own 
mind  the  way  she  had  behaved  from  beginning  to 
end.  She  remembered  that  not  only  in  her  actions, 
but  even  in  her  secret  thoughts,  she  had  always  been 
opposed  to  Ilyin's  love-making;  but  yet  she  felt 
there  was  a  grain  of  truth  in  the  lawyer's  words. 
But  not  knowing  exactly  what  the  truth  was,  she 
could  not  find  answers  to  make  to  Ilyin's  complaint, 
however  hard  she  thought.  It  was  awkward  to  be 
silent,  and,  shrugging  her  shoulders,  she  said: 

"  So  I  am  to  blame,  it  appears." 

"  I  don't  blame  you  for  your  insincerity,"  sighed 
Ilyin.  "  I  did  not  mean  that  when  I  spoke  of  it. 
.  .  .  Your  insincerity  is  natural  and  in  the  order  of 
things.  If  people  agreed  together  and  suddenly 
became  sincere,  everything  would  go  to  the  devil." 

Sofya  Petrovna  was  in  no  mood  for  philosophical 
reflections,  but  she  was  glad  of  a  chance  to  change 
the  conversation,  and  asked: 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  only  savage  women  and  animals  are  sin- 
cere. Once  civilization  has  introduced  a  demand 
for  such  comforts  as,  for  instance,  feminine  virtue, 
sincerity  is  out  of  place.  .  .  ." 

Ilyin  jabbed  his  stick  angrily  into  the  sand.  Ma- 
dame Lubyantsev  listened  to  him  and  liked  his  con- 
versation, though  a  great  deal  of  it  she  did  not  un- 


A  Misfortune  311 

derstand.  What  gratified  her  most  was  that  she,  an 
ordinary  woman,  was  talked  to  by  a  talented  man  on 
"  intellectual  "  subjects;  it  afforded  her  great  pleas- 
ure, too,  to  watch  the  working  of  his  mobile,  young 
face,  which  was  still  pale  and  angry.  She  failed 
to  understand  a  great  deal  that  he  said,  but  what 
was  clear  to  her  in  his  words  was  the  attractive  bold- 
ness with  which  the  modern  man  without  hesitation 
or  doubt  decides  great  questions  and  draws  conclu- 
sive deductions. 

She  suddenly  realized  that  she  was  admiring  him, 
and  was  alarmed. 

"  Forgive  me,  but  I  don't  understand,"  she  said 
hurriedly.  "What  makes  you  talk  of  insincerity? 
I  repeat  my  request  again:  be  my  good,  true  friend; 
let  me  alone!  I  beg  you  most  earnestly!  " 

"  Very  good;  I'll  try  again,"  sighed  Ilyin.  "  Glad 
to  do  my  best.  .  .  .  Only  I  doubt  whether  anything 
will  come  of  my  efforts.  Either  I  shall  put  a  bullet 
through  my  brains  or  take  to  drink  in  an  idiotic  way. 
I  shall  come  to  a  bad  end !  There's  a  limit  to  every- 
thing —  to  struggles  with  Nature,  too.  Tell  me, 
how  can  one  struggle  against  madness?  If  you 
drink  wine,  how  are  you  to  struggle  against  intoxi- 
cation? What  am  I  to  do  if  your  image  has  grown 
into  my  soul,  and  day  and  night  stands  persistently 
before  my  eyes,  like  that  pine  there  at  this  moment? 
Come,  tell  me,  what  hard  and  difficult  thing  can  I 


312     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

do  to  get  free  from  this  abominable,  miserable  con- 
dition, in  which  all  my  thoughts,  desires,  and  dreams 
are  no  longer  my  own,  but  belong  to  some  demon 
who  has  taken  possession  of  me?  I  love  you,  love 
you  so  much  that  I  am  completely  thrown  out  of 
gear;  I've  given  up  my  work  and  all  who  are  dear 
to  me;  I've  forgotten  my  Godl  I've  never  been  in 
love  like  this  in  my  life." 

Sofya  Petrovna,  who  had  not  expected  such  a 
turn  to  their  conversation,  drew  away  from  Ilyin 
and  looked  into  his  face  in  dismay.  Tears  came 
into  his  eyes,  his  lips  were  quivering,  and  there  was 
an  imploring,  hungry  expression  in  his  face. 

"  I  love  you  !  "  he  muttered,  bringing  his  eyes  near 
her  big,  frightened  eyes.  'You  are  so  beautiful! 
I  am  in  agony  now,  but  I  swear  I  would  sit  here  all 
my  life,  suffering  and  looking  in  your  eyes.  But 
.  .  .  be  silent,  I  implore  you!  " 

Sofya  Petrovna,  feeling  utterly  disconcerted,  tried 
to  think  as  quickly  as  possible  of  something  to  say 
to  stop  him.  "  I'll  go  away,"  she  decided,  but  be- 
fore she  had  time  to  make  a  movement  to  get  up, 
Ilyin  was  on  his  knees  before  her.  .  .  .  He  was 
clasping  her  knees,  gazing  into  her  face  and  speak- 
ing passionately,  hotly,  eloquently.  In  her  terror 
and  confusion  she  did  not  hear  his  words;  for  some 
reason  now,  at  this  dangerous  moment,  while  her 


A  Misfortune  313 

knees  were  being  agreeably  squeezed  and  felt  as 
though  they  were  in  a  warm  bath,  she  was  trying, 
with  a  sort  of  angry  spite,  to  interpret  her  own  sen- 
sations. She  was  angry  that  instead  of  brimming 
over  with  protesting  virtue,  she  was  entirely  over- 
whelmed with  weakness,  apathy,  and  emptiness,  like 
a  drunken  man  utterly  reckless;  only  at  the  bottom 
of  her  soul  a  remote  bit  of  herself  was  malignantly 
taunting  her:  "Why  don't  you  go?  Is  this  as  it 
should  be?  Yes?" 

Seeking  for  some  explanation,  she  could  not  un- 
derstand how  it  was  she  did  not  pull  away  the  hand 
to  which  Ilyin  was  clinging  like  a  leech,  and  why, 
like  Ilyin,  she  hastily  glanced  to  right  and  to  left  to 
see  whether  any  one  was  looking.  The  clouds  and 
the  pines  stood  motionless,  looking  at  them  severely, 
like  old  ushers  seeing  mischief,  but  bribed  not  to  tell 
the  school  authorities.  The  sentry  stood  like  a  post 
on  the  embankment  and  seemed  to  be  looking  at 
the  seat. 

"  Let  him  look,"  thought  Sofya  Petrovna. 

"  But  .  .  .  but  listen,"  she  said  at  last,  with  de- 
spair in  her  voice.  "What  can  come  of  this? 
What  will  be  the  end  of  this?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  he  whispered, 
waving  off  the  disagreeable  questions. 

They  heard  the  hoarse,  discordant  whistle  of  the 


314     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

train.  This  cold,  irrelevant  sound  from  the  every- 
day world  of  prose  made  Sofya  Petrovna  rouse  her- 
self. 

"  I  can't  stay  .  .  .  it's  time  I  was  at  home,"  she 
said,  getting  up  quickly.  ''  The  train  is  coming  in. 
.  .  .  Andrey  is  coming  by  it!  He  will  want  his 
dinner." 

Sofya  Petrovna  turned  towards  the  embankment 
with  a  burning  face.  The  engine  slowly  crawled  by, 
then  came  the  carriages.  It  was  not  the  local  train, 
as  she  had  supposed,  but  a  goods  train.  The  trucks 
filed  by  against  the  background  of  the  white  church 
in  a  long  string  like  the  days  of  a  man's  life,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  it  would  never  end. 

But  at  last  the  train  passed,  arid  the  last  carriage 
with  the  guard  and  a  light  in  it  had  disappeared 
behind  the  trees.  Sofya  Petrovna  turned  round 
sharply,  and  without  looking  at  Ilyin,  walked  rap- 
idly back  along  the  track.  She  had  regained  her 
self-possession.  Crimson  with  shame,  humiliated 
not  by  Ilyin  —  no,  but  by  her  own  cowardice,  by  the 
shamelessness  with  which  she,  a  chaste  and  high- 
principled  woman,  had  allowed  a  man,  not  her  hus- 
band, to  hug  her  knees  —  she  had  only  one  thought 
now:  to  get  home  as  quickly  as  possible  to  her  villa, 
to  her  family.  The  lawyer  could  hardly  keep  pace 
with  her.  Turning  from  the  clearing  into  a  narrow 
path,  she  turned  round  and  glanced  at  him  so  quickly 


A  Misfortune  315 

that  she  saw  nothing  but  the  sand  on  his  knees,  and 
waved  to  him  to  drop  behind. 

Reaching  home,  Sofya  Petrovna  stood  in  the  mid- 
dle of  her  room  for  five  minutes  without  moving, 
and  looked  first  at  the  window  and  then  at  her  writ- 
ing-table. 

'  You  low  creature !  "  she  said,  upbraiding  her- 
self.    "  You  low  creature !  " 

To  spite  herself,  she  recalled  in  precise  detail, 
keeping  nothing  back  —  she  recalled  that  though 
all  this  time  she  had  been  opposed  to  Ilyin's  love- 
making,  something  had  impelled  her  to  seek  an  in- 
terview with  him;  and  what  was  more,  when  he 
was  at  her  feet  she  had  enjoyed  it  enormously.  She 
recalled  it  all  without  sparing  herself,  and  now, 
breathless  with  shame,  she  would  have  liked  to  slap 
herself  in  the  face. 

"Poor  Andrey!"  she  said  to  herself,  trying  as 
she  thought  of  her  husband  to  put  into  her  face  as 
tender  an  expression  as  she  could.  '  Varya,  my 
poor  little  girl,  doesn't  know  what  a  mother  she 
has!  Forgive  me,  my  dear  ones!  I  love  you  so 
much  ...  so  much!  " 

And  anxious  to  prove  to  herself  that  she  was  still 
a  good  wife  and  mother,  and  that  corruption  had 
not  yet  touched  that  "  sanctity  of  marriage  "  of 
which  she  had  spoken  to  Ilyin,  Sofya  Petrovna  ran 
to  the  kitchen  and  abused  the  cook  for  not  having 


316    The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

yet  laid  the  table  for  Andrey  Ilyitch.  She  tried  to 
picture  her  husband's  hungry  and  exhausted  appear- 
ance, commiserated  him  aloud,  and  laid  the  table 
for  him  with  her  own  hands,  which  she  had  never 
done  before.  Then  she  found  her  daughter  Vary  a, 
picked  her  up  in  her  arms  and  hugged  her  warmly; 
the  child  seemed  to  her  cold  and  heavy,  but  she  was 
unwilling  to  acknowledge  this  to  herself,  and  she  be- 
gan explaining  to  the  child  how  good,  kind,  and 
honourable  her  papa  was. 

But  when  Andrey  Ilyitch  arrived  soon  afterwards 
she  hardly  greeted  him.  The  rush  of  false  feeling 
had  already  passed  off  without  proving  anything  to 
her,  only  irritating  and  exasperating  her  by  its 
falsity.  She  was  sitting  by  the  window,  feeling 
miserable  and  cross.  It  is  only  by  being  in  trouble 
that  people  can  understand  how  far  from  easy  it 
is  to  be  the  master  of  one's  feelings  and  thoughts. 
Sofya  Petrovna  said  afterwards  that  there  was  a 
tangle  within  her  which  it  was  as  difficult  to  unravel 
as  to  count  a  flock  of  sparrows  rapidly  flying  by. 
From  the  fact  that  she  was  not  overjoyed  to  see  her 
husband,  that  she  did  not  like  his  manner  at  dinner, 
she  concluded  all  of  a  sudden  that  she  was  beginning 
to  hate  her  husband. 

Andrey  Ilyitch,  languid  with  hunger  and  exhaus- 
tion, fell  upon  the  sausage  while  waiting  for  the 


A  Misfortune  317 

soup  to  be  brought  in,  and  ate  it  greedily,  munching 
noisily  and  moving  his  temples. 

"  My  goodness!  "  thought  Sofya  Petrovna.  "  I 
love  and  respect  him,  but  .  .  .  why  does  he  munch 
so  repulsively?  " 

The  disorder  in  her  thoughts  was  no  less  than  the 
disorder  in  her  feelings.  Like  all  persons  inexpe- 
rienced in  combating  unpleasant  ideas,  Madame  Lu- 
byantsev  did  her  utmost  not  to  think  of  her  trouble, 
and  the  harder  she  tried  the  more  vividly  Ilyin,  the 
sand  on  his  knees,  the  fluffy  clouds,  the  train,  stood 
out  in  her  imagination. 

"  And  why  did  I  go  there  this  afternoon  like  a 
fool?"  she  thought,  tormenting  herself.  "And 
am  I  really  so  weak  that  I  cannot  depend  upon  my- 
self? " 

Fear  magnifies  danger.  By  the  time  Andrey 
Ilyitch  was  finishing  the  last  course,  she  had  firmly 
made  up  her  mind  to  tell  her  husband  everything 
and  to  flee  from  danger! 

"  I've  something  serious  to  say  to  you,  An- 
drey," she  began  after  dinner  while  her  husband  was 
taking  off  his  coat  and  boots  to  lie  down  for  a  nap. 

"Well?" 

"  Let  us  leave  this  place !  " 

"  H'm!  .  .  .  Where  shall  we  go?  It's  too  soon 
to  go  back  to  town." 


318    The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  No;  for  a  tour  or  something  of  that  sort.  .  .  ." 

"  For  a  tour  .  .  ."  repeated  the  notary,  stretch- 
ing. "  I  dream  of  that  myself,  but  where  are  we 
to  get  the  money,  and  to  whom  am  I  to  leave  the 
office?" 

And  thinking  a  little  he  added: 

"  Of  course,  you  must  be  bored.  Go  by  your- 
self if  you  like." 

Sofya  Petrovna  agreed,  but  at  once  reflected  that 
Ilyin  would  be  delighted  with  the  opportunity,  and 
would  go  with  her  in  the  same  train,  in  the  same  com- 
partment. .  .  .  She  thought  and  looked  at  her  hus- 
band, now  satisfied  but  still  languid.  For  some  rea- 
son her  eyes  rested  on  his  feet  —  miniature,  almost 
feminine  feet,  clad  in  striped  socks;  there  was  a 
thread  standing  out  at  the  tip  of  each  sock. 

Behind  the  blind  a  bumble-bee  was  beating  itself 
against  the  window-pane  and  buzzing.  Sofya  Pe- 
trovna looked  at  the  threads  on  the  socks,  listened  to 
the  bee,  and  pictured  how  she  would  set  off.  .  .  . 
Vis-a-vis  Ilyin  would  sit,  day  and  night,  never  taking 
his  eyes  off  her,  wrathful  at  his  own  weakness  and 
pale  with  spiritual  agony.  He  would  call  himself 
an  immoral  schoolboy,  would  abuse  her,  tear  his 
hair,  but  when  darkness  came  on  and  the  passengers 
were  asleep  or  got  out  at  a  station,  he  would  seize 
the  opportunity  to  kneel  before  her  and  embrace  her 
knees  as  he  had  at  the  seat  in  the  wood. 


A  Misfortune  319 

She  caught  herself  indulging  in  this  day-dream. 

"  Listen.  I  won't  go  alone,"  she  said.  "  You 
must  come  with  me." 

"  Nonsense,  Sofotchka !  "  sighed  Lubyantsev. 
"  One  must  be  sensible  and  not  want  the  impossi- 
ble." 

'  You  will  come  when  you  know  all  about  it," 
thought  Sofya  Petrovna. 

Making  up  her  mind  to  go  at  all  costs,  she  felt 
that  she  was  out  of  danger.  Little  by  little  her 
ideas  grew  clearer;  her  spirits  rose  and  she  allowed 
herself  to  think  about  it  all,  feeling  that  however 
much  she  thought,  however  much  she  dreamed,  she 
would  go  away.  While  her  husband  was  asleep, 
the  evening  gradually  came  on.  She  sat  in  the 
drawing-room  and  played  the  piano.  The  greater 
liveliness  out  of  doors,  the  sound  of  music,  but  above 
all  the  thought  that  she  was  a  sensible  person,  that 
she  had  surmounted  her  difficulties,  completely  re- 
stored her  spirits.  Other  women,  her  appeased  con- 
science told  her,  would  probably  have  been  carried 
off  their  feet  in  her  position,  and  would  have  lost 
their  balance,  while  she  had  almost  died  of  shame, 
had  been  miserable,  and  was  now  running  out  of  the 
danger  which  perhaps  did  not  exist!  She  was  so 
touched  by  her  own  virtue  and  determination  that 
she  even  looked  at  herself  two  or  three  times  in  the 
looking-glass. 


320     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

When  it  got  dark,  visitors  arrived.  The  men 
sat  down  in  the  dining-room  to  play  cards;  the  ladies 
remained  in  the  drawing-room  and  the  verandah. 
The  last  to  arrive  was  Ilyin.  He  was  gloomy, 
morose,  and  looked  ill.  He  sat  down  in  the  corner 
of  the  sofa  and  did  not  move  the  whole  evening. 
Usually  good-humoured  and  talkative,  this  time  he 
remained  silent,  frowned,  and  rubbed  his  eyebrows. 
When  he  had  to  answer  some  question,  he  gave  a 
forced  smile  with  his  upper  lip  only,  and  answered 
jerkily  and  irritably.  Four  or  five  times  he  made 
some  jest,  but  his  jests  sounded  harsh  and  cutting. 
It  seemed  to  Sofya  Petrovna  that  he  was  on  the  verge 
of  hysterics.  Only  now,  sitting  at  the  piano,  she 
recognized  fully  for  the  first  time  that  this  unhappy 
man  was  in  deadly  earnest,  that  his  soul  was  sick, 
and  that  he  could  find  no  rest.  For  her  sake  he 
was  wasting  the  best  days  of  his  youth  and  his 
career,  spending  the  last  of  his  money  on  a  summer 
villa,  abandoning  his  mother  and  sisters,  and,  worst 
of  all,  wearing  himself  out  in  an  agonizing  struggle 
with  himself.  From  mere  common  humanity  he 
ought  to  be  treated  seriously. 

She  recognized  all  this  clearly  till  it  made  her 
heart  ache,  and  if  at  that  moment  she  had  gone  up 
to  him  and  said  to  him,  "  No,"  there  would  have 
been  a  force  in  her  voice  hard  to  disobey.  But 
she  did  not  go  up  to  him  and  did  not  speak  —  in- 


A  Misfortune  321 

deed,  never  thought  of  doing  so.  The  pettiness  and 
egoism  of  youth  had  never  been  more  patent  in  her 
than  that  evening.  She  realized  that  Ilyin  was  un- 
happy, and  that  he  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  as  though 
he  were  on  hot  coals;  she  felt  sorry  for  him,  but  at 
the  same  time  the  presence  of  a  man  who  loved  her 
to  distraction,  filled  her  soul  with  triumph  and  a 
sense  of  her  own  power.  She  felt  her  youth,  her 
beauty,  and  her  unassailable  virtue,  and,  since  she 
had  decided  to  go  away,  gave  herself  full  licence  for 
that  evening.  She  flirted,  laughed  incessantly,  sang 
with  peculiar  feeling  and  gusto.  Everything  de- 
lighted and  amused  her.  She  was  amused  at  the 
memory  of  what  had  happened  at  the  seat  in  the 
wood,  of  the  sentinel  who  had  looked  on.  She  was 
amused  by  her  guests,  by  Ilyin's  cutting  jests,  by  the 
pin  in  his  cravat,  which  she  had  never  noticed  before. 
There  was  a  red  snake  with  diamond  eyes  on  the 
pin;  this  snake  struck  her  as  so  amusing  that  she 
could  have  kissed  it  on  the  spot. 

Sofya  Petrovna  sang  nervously,  with  defiant 
recklessness  as  though  half  intoxicated,  and  she 
chose  sad,  mournful  songs  which  dealt  with  wasted 
hopes,  the  past,  old  age,  as  though  in  mockery  of 
another's  grief.  "  '  And  old  age  comes  nearer  and 
nearer  '  .  .  ."  she  sang.  And  what  was  old  age  to 
her? 

"  It  seems  as  though  there  is  something  going 


322     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

wrong  with  me,"  she  thought  from  time  to  time 
through  her  laughter  and  singing. 

The  party  broke  up  at  twelve  o'clock.  Ilyin  was 
the  last  to  leave.  Sofya  Petrovna  was  still  reckless 
enough  to  accompany  him  to  the  bottom  step  of  the 
Verandah.  She  wanted  to  tell  him  that  she  was 
going  away  with  her  husband,  and  to  watch  the  effect 
this  news  would  produce  on  him. 

The  moon  was  hidden  behind  the  clouds,  but  it 
was  light  enough  for  Sofya  Petrovna  to  see  how 
the  wind  played  with  the  skirts  of  his  overcoat  and 
with  the  awning  of  the  verandah.  She  could  see, 
too,  how  white  Ilyin  was,  and  how  he  twisted  his 
upper  lip  in  the  effort  to  smile. 

"  Sonia,  Sonitchka  .  .  .  my  darling  woman !  " 
he  muttered,  preventing  her  from  speaking.  "  My 
dear!  my  sweet!  " 

In  a  rush  of  tenderness,  with  tears  in  his  voice, 
he  showered  caressing  words  upon  her,  that  grew 
tenderer  and  tenderer,  and  even  called  her  "  thou," 
as  though  she  were  his  wife  or  mistress.  Quite 
unexpectedly  he  put  one  arm  round  her  waist  and 
with  the  other  hand  took  hold  of  her  elbow. 

"  My  precious!  my  delight!  "  he  whispered,  kiss- 
ing the  nape  of  her  neck;  "  be  sincere;  come  to  me 
at  once!  " 

She  slipped  out  of  his  arms  and  raised  her  head 
to  give  vent  to  her  indignation  and  anger,  but  the 


A  Misfortune  323 

indignation  did  not  come  off,  and  all  her  vaunted 
virtue  and  chastity  was  only  sufficient  to  enable  her 
to  utter  the  phrase  used  by  all  ordinary  women  on 
such  occasions: 

"  You  must  be  mad." 

"  Come,  let  us  go,"  Ilyin  continued.  "  I  felt  just 
now,  as  well  as  at  the  seat  in  the  wood,  that  you  are 
as  helpless  as  I  am,  Sonia.  .  .  .  You  are  in  the  same 
plight!  You  love  me  and  are  fruitlessly  trying  to 
appease  your  conscience.  .  .  ." 

Seeing  that  she  was  moving  away,  he  caught  her 
by  her  lace  cuff  and  said  rapidly: 

u  If  not  today,  then  tomorrow  you  will  have  to 
give  in!  Why,  then,  this  waste  of  time?  My  pre- 
cious, darling  Sonia,  the  sentence  is  passed;  why  put 
off  the  execution?  Why  deceive  yourself?  " 

Sofya  Petrovna  tore  herself  from  him  and  darted 
in  at  the  door.  Returning  to  the  drawing-room,  she 
mechanically  shut  the  piano,  looked  for  a  long  time 
at  the  music-stand,  and  sat  down.  She  could  not 
stand  up  nor  think.  All  that  was  left  of  her  excite- 
ment and  recklessness  was  a  fearful  weakness, 
apathy,  and  dreariness.  Her  conscience  whispered 
to  her  that  she  had  behaved  badly,  foolishly,  that 
evening,  like  some  madcap  girl  —  that  she  had  just 
been  embraced  on  the  verandah,  and  still  had  an  un- 
easy feeling  in  her  waist  and  her  elbow.  There  was 
not  a  soul  in  the  drawing-room;  there  was  only  one 


324     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

candle  burning.  Madame  Lubyantsev  sat  on  the 
round  stool  before  the  piano,  motionless,  as  though 
expecting  something.  And  as  though  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  darkness  and  her  extreme  lassitude,  an 
oppressive,  overpowering  desire  began  to  assail  her. 
Like  a  boa-constrictor  it  gripped  her  limbs  and  her 
soul,  and  grew  stronger  every  second,  and  no  longer 
menaced  her  as  it  had  done,  but  stood  clear  before 
her  in  all  its  nakedness. 

She  sat  for  half  an  hour  without  stirring,  not  re- 
straining herself  from  thinking  of  Ilyin,  then  she  got 
up  languidly  and  dragged  herself  to  her  bedroom. 
Andrey  Ilyitch  was  already  in  bed.  She  sat  down 
by  the  open  window  and  gave  herself  up  to  desire. 
There  was  no  "tangle"  now  in  her  head;  all  her 
thoughts  and  feelings  were  bent  with  one  accord 
upon  a  single  aim.  She  tried  to  struggle  against  it, 
but  instantly  gave  it  up.  .  .  .  She  understood  now 
how  strong  and  relentless  was  the  foe.  Strength 
and  fortitude  were  needed  to  combat  him,  and  her 
birth,  her  education,  and  her  life  had  given  her  noth- 
ing to  fall  back  upon. 

"  Immoral  wretch!  Low  creature!  "  she  nagged 
at  herself  for  her  weakness.  "  So  that's  what  you're 
like!" 

Her  outraged  sense  of  propriety  was  moved  to 
such  indignation  by  this  weakness  that  she  lavished 
upon  herself  every  term  of  abuse  she  knew,  and 


A  Misfortune  325 

told  herself  many  offensive  and  humiliating  truths. 
So,  for  instance,  she  told  herself  that  she  never  had 
been  moral,  that  she  had  not  come  to  grief  before 
simply  because  she  had  had  no  opportunity,  that  her 
inward  conflict  during  that  day  had  all  been  a 
farce.  .  .  . 

"  And  even  if  I  have  struggled,"  she  thought, 
"what  sort  of  struggle  was  it?  Even  the  woman 
who  sells  herself  struggles  before  she  brings  herself 
to  it,  and  yet  she  sells  herself.  A  fine  struggle  1 
Like  milk,  I've  turned  in  a  day!  In  one  day!  " 

She  convicted  herself  of  being  tempted,  not  by 
feeling,  not  by  Ilyin  personally,  but  by  sensations 
which  awaited  her  ...  an  idle  lady,  having  her 
fling  in  the  summer  holidays,  like  so  many! 

'  Like  an  unfledged  bird  when  the  mother  has 
been  slain,'  "  sang  a  husky  tenor  outside  the  win- 
dow. 

"  If  I  am  to  go,  it's  time,"  thought  Sofya  Pe- 
trovna.  Her  heart  suddenly  began  beating  vio- 
lently. 

"Andrey!"  she  almost  shrieked.  "Listen!  we 
.  .  .  we  are  going?  Yes?" 

'  Yes,  I've  told  you  already:  you  go  alone." 

"  But  listen,"  she  began.  "  If  you  don't  go  with 
me,  you  are  in  danger  of  losing  me.  I  believe  I 
am  ...  in  love  already." 

"  With  whom?  "  asked  Andrey  Ilyitch. 


326    The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  It  can't  make  any  difference  to  you  who  it  is !  " 
cried  Sofya  Petrovna. 

Andrey  Ilyitch  sat  up  with  his  feet  out  of  bed  and 
looked  wonderingly  at  his  wife's  dark  figure. 

"  It's  a  fancy !  "  he  yawned. 

He  did  not  believe  her,  but  yet  he  was  frightened. 
After  thinking  a  little  and  asking  his  wife  several 
unimportant  questions,  he  delivered  himself  of  his 
opinions  on  the  family,  on  infidelity  .  .  .  spoke  list- 
lessly for  about  ten  minutes  and  got  into  bed  again. 
His  moralizing  produced  no  effect.  There  are  a 
great  many  opinions  in  the  world,  and  a  good  half 
of  them  are  held  by  people  who  have  never  been  in 
trouble ! 

In  spite  of  the  late  hour,  summer  visitors  were 
still  walking  outside.  Sofya  Petrovna  put  on  a  light 
cape,  stood  a  little,  thought  a  little.  .  .  .  She  still 
had  resolution  enough  to  say  to  her  sleeping  hus- 
band: 

"  Are  you  asleep?  I  am  going  for  a  walk.  .  .  . 
Will  you  come  with  me  ?  " 

That  was  her  last  hope.  Receiving  no  answer, 
she  went  out.  ...  It  was  fresh  and  windy.  She 
was  conscious  neither  of  the  wind  nor  the  darkness, 
but  went  on  and  on.  .  .  .  An  overmastering  force 
drove  her  on,  and  it  seemed  as  though,  if  she  had 
stopped,  it  would  have  pushed  her  in  the  back. 


A  Misfortune  327 

"  Immoral  creature!  "  she  muttered  mechanically. 
"  Low  wretch !" 

She  was  breathless,  hot  with  shame,  did  not  feel 
her  legs  under  her,  but  what  drove  her  on  was 
stronger  than  shame,  reason,  or  fear. 


A  TRIFLE  FROM  LIFE 


A  TRIFLE  FROM  LIFE 

A  WELL-FED,  red-cheeked  young  man  called  Niko- 
lay  Ilyitch  Belyaev,  of  thirty-two,  who  was  an  owner 
of  house  property  in  Petersburg,  and  a  devotee  of  the 
race-course,  went  one  evening  to  see  Olga  Ivanovna 
Irnin,  with  whom  he  was  living,  or,  to  use  his  own 
expression,  was  dragging  out  a  long,  wearisome  ro- 
mance. And,  indeed,  the  first  interesting  and  en- 
thusiastic pages  of  this  romance  had  long  been 
perused ;  now  the  pages  dragged  on,  and  still  dragged 
on,  without  presenting  anything  new  or  of  interest. 

Not  finding  Olga  Ivanovna  at  home,  my  hero  lay 
down  on  the  lounge  chair  and  proceeded  to  wait  for 
her  in  the  drawing-room. 

"Good-evening,  Nikolay  Ilyitch!"  he  heard  a 
child's  voice.  "  Mother  will  be  here  directly.  She 
has  gone  with  Sonia  to  the  dressmaker's." 

Olga  Ivanovna's  son,  Alyosha  —  a  boy  of  eight 
who  looked  graceful  and  very  well  cared  for,  who 
was  dressed  like  a  picture,  in  a  black  velvet  jacket 
and  long  black  stockings  —  was  lying  on  the  sofa 
in  the  same  room.  He  was  lying  on  a  satin  cushion 
and,  evidently  imitating  an  acrobat  he  had  lately 
seen  at  the  circus,  stuck  up  in  the  air  first  one  leg 

331 


332    The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

and  then  the  other.  When  his  elegant  legs  were 
exhausted,  he  brought  his  arms  into  play  or  jumped 
up  impulsively  and  went  on  all  fours,  trying  to  stand 
with  his  legs  in  the  air.  All  this  he  was  doing  with 
the  utmost  gravity,  gasping  and  groaning  painfully 
as  though  he  regretted  that  God  had  given  him  such 
a  restless  body. 

"  Ah,  good-evening,  my  boy,"  said  Belyaev. 
"  It's  you !  I  did  not  notice  you.  Is  your  mother 
well?" 

Alyosha,  taking  hold  of  the  tip  of  his  left  toe  with 
his  right  hand  and  falling  into  the  most  unnatural 
attitude,  turned  over,  jumped  up,  and  peeped  at  Bel- 
yaev from  behind  the  big  fluffy  lampshade. 

"  What  shall  I  say?  "  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders. "  In  reality  mother's  never  well.  You  see, 
she  is  a  woman,  and  women,  Nikolay  Ilyitch,  have 
always  something  the  matter  with  them." 

Belyaev,  having  nothing  better  to  do,  began  watch- 
ing Alyosha's  face.  He  had  never  before  during 
the  whole  of  his  intimacy  with  Olga  Ivanovna  paid 
any  attention  to  the  boy,  and  had  completely  ignored 
his  existence;  the  boy  had  been  before  his  eyes,  but 
he  had  not  cared  to  think  why  he  was  there  and  what 
part  he  was  playing. 

In  the  twilight  of  the  evening,  Alyosha's  face, 
with  his  white  forehead  and  black,  unblinking  eyes, 
unexpectedly  reminded  Belyaev  of  Olga  Ivanovna 


A  Trifle  from  Life  333 

as  she  had  been  during  the  first  pages  of  their  ro- 
mance. And  he  felt  disposed  to  be  friendly  to  the 
boy. 

"Come  here,  insect,"  he  said;  "let  me  have  a 
closer  look  at  you." 

The  boy  jumped  off  the  sofa  and  skipped  up  to 
Belyaev. 

"  Well,"  began  Nikolay  Ilyitch,  putting  a  hand 
on  the  boy's  thin  shoulder.  "  How  are  you  getting 
on?" 

"  How  shall  I  say!  We  used  to  get  on  a  great 
deal  better." 

"Why?" 

"  It's  very  simple.  Sonia  and  I  used  only  to 
learn  music  and  reading,  and  now  they  give  us 
French  poetry  to  learn.  Have  you  been  shaved 
lately?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Yes,  I  see  you  have.  Your  beard  is  shorter. 
Let  me  touch  it.  ...  Does  that  hurt?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why  is  it  that  if  you  pull  one  hair  it  hurts, 
but  if  you  pull  a  lot  at  once  it  doesn't  hurt  a  bit? 
Ha,  ha !  And,  you  know,  it's  a  pity  you  don't  have 
whiskers.  Here  ought  to  be  shaved  .  .  .  but  here 
at  the  sides  the  hair  ought  to  be  left.  .  .  ." 

The  boy  nestled  up  to  Belyaev  and  began  playing 
with  his  watch-chain. 


334    The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  When  I  go  to  the  high-school,"  he  said,  "  mother 
is  going  to  buy  me  a  watch.  I  shall  ask  her  to  buy 
me  a  watch-chain  like  this.  .  .  .  Wh  —  at  a  loc  — 
ket!  Father's  got  a  locket  like  that,  only  yours  has 
little  bars  on  it  and  his  has  letters.  .  .  .  There's 
mother's  portrait  in  the  middle  of  his.  Father  has 
a  different  sort  of  chain  now,  not  made  with  rings, 
but  like  ribbon.  .  .  ." 

"How  do  you  know?  Do  you  see  your  fa- 
ther?" 

"I?     M'm  ...  no.  ...  I  ..." 

Alyosha  blushed,  and  in  great  confusion,  feeling 
caught  in  a  lie,  began  zealously  scratching  the  locket 
with  his  nail.  .  .  .  Belyaev  looked  steadily  into  his 
face  and  asked: 

"  Do  you  see  your  father?  " 

"N-no!" 

"  Come,  speak  frankly,  on  your  honour.  ...  I 
see  from  your  face  you  are  telling  a  fib.  Once 
you've  let  a  thing  slip  out  it's  no  good  wriggling 
about  it.  Tell  me,  do  you  see  him?  Come,  as  a 
friend." 

Alyosha  hesitated. 

"  You  won't  tell  mother?  "  he  said. 

"As  though  I  should!" 

"  On  your  honour?  " 

"  On  my  honour." 


A  Trifle  from  Life  335 

"  Do  you  swear?  " 

"Ah,  you  provoking  boy!  What  do  you  take 
me  for?  " 

Alyosha  looked  round  him,  then  with  wide-open 
eyes,  whispered  to  him : 

"  Only,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  tell  mother. 
.  .  .  Don't  tell  any  one  at  all,  for  it  is  a  secret. 
I  hope  to  goodness  mother  won't  find  out,  or  we 
should  all  catch  it  —  Sonia,  and  I,  and  Pelagea. 
.  .  .  Well,  listen.  .  .  .  Sonia  and  I  see  father 
every  Tuesday  and  Friday.  When  Pelagea  takes 
us  for  a  walk  before  dinner  we  go  to  the  Apfel 
Restaurant,  and  there  is  father  waiting  for  us.  ... 
He  is  always  sitting  in  a  room  apart,  where  you 
know  there's  a  marble  table  and  an  ash-tray  in  the 
shape  of  a  goose  without  a  back.  .  .  ." 

"  What  do  you  do  there?  " 

"Nothing!  First  we  say  how-do-you-do,  then 
we  all  sit  round  the  table,  and  father  treats  us  with 
coffee  and  pies.  You  know  Sonia  eats  the  meat- 
pies,  but  I  can't  endure  meat-pies !  I  like  the  pies 
made  of  cabbage  and  eggs.  We  eat  such  a  lot  that 
we  have  to  try  hard  to  eat  as  much  as  we  can  at  din- 
ner, for  fear  mother  should  notice." 

"  What  do  you  talk  about?  " 

"With  father?  About  anything.  He  kisses  us, 
he  hugs  us,  tells  us  all  sorts  of  amusing  jokes.  Do 


336    The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

you  know,  he  says  when  we  are  grown  up  he  is 
going  to  take  us  to  live  with  him.  Sonia  does  not 
want  to  go,  but  I  agree.  Of  course,  I  should  miss 
mother;  but,  then,  I  should  write  her  letters!  It's 
a  queer  idea,  but  we  could  come  and  visit  her  on 
holidays  —  couldn't  we?  Father  says,  too,  that  he 
will  buy  me  a  horse.  He's  an  awfully  kind  man! 
I  can't  understand  why  mother  does  not  ask  him 
to  come  and  live  with  us,  and  why  she  forbids  us  to 
see  him.  You  know  he  loves  mother  very  much. 
He  is  always  asking  us  how  she  is  and  what  she  is 
doing.  When  she  was  ill  he  clutched  his  head  like 
this,  and  .  .  .  and  kept  running  about.  He  always 
tells  us  to  be  obedient  and  respectful  to  her.  Listen. 
Is  it  true  that  we  are  unfortunate?  " 

"H'm!  .  .  .  Why?" 

1  That's  what  father  says.  '  You  are  unhappy 
children,'  he  says.  It's  strange  to  hear  him,  really. 
'  You  are  unhappy,'  he  says,  '  I  am  unhappy,  and 
mother's  unhappy.  You  must  pray  to  God,'  he  says ; 
'  for  yourselves  and  for  her.' ' 

Alyosha  let  his  eyes  rest  on  a  stuffed  bird  and 
sank  into  thought. 

"  So  .  .  ."  growled  Belyaev.  "  So  that's  how 
you  are  going  on.  You  arrange  meetings  at  restau- 
rants. And  mother  does  not  know?  " 

"  No-o.  .  .  .  How  should  she  know?  Pelagea 
would  not  tell  her  for  anything,  you  know.  The  day 


A  Trifle  from  Life  337 

before  yesterday  he  gave  us  some  pears.  As  sweet 
as  jam!  I  ate  two." 

"H'm!  .  .  .  Well,  and  I  say  .  .  .  Listen.  Did 
father  say  anything  about  me?  " 

"  About  you  ?     What  shall  I  say  ?  " 

Alyosha  looked  searchingly  into  Belyaev's  face 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  He  didn't  say  anything  particular." 

"  For  instance,  what  did  he  say?  " 

"You  won't  be  offended?" 

;'  What  next?     Why,  does  he  abuse  me?  " 

"  He  doesn't  abuse  you,  but  you  know  he  is  angry 
with  you.  He  says  mother's  unhappy  owing  to  you 
.  .  .  and  that  you  have  ruined  mother.  You  know 
he  is  so  queer!  I  explain  to  him  that  you  are  kind, 
that  you  never  scold  mother;  but  he  only  shakes  his 
head." 

"  So  he  says  I  have  ruined  her?  " 

'  Yes;  you  mustn't  be  offended,  Nikolay  Ilyitch." 

Belyaev  got  up,  stood  still  a  moment,  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  drawing-room. 

"  That's  strange  and  .  .  .  ridiculous !  "  he  mut- 
tered, shrugging  his  shoulders  and  smiling  sarcastic- 
ally. "  He's  entirely  to  blame,  and  I  have  ruined 
her,  eh?  An  innocent  lamb,  I  must  say.  So  he 
told  you  I  ruined  your  mother?  " 

"  Yes,  but  .  .  .  you  said  you  would  not  be  of- 
fended, you  know." 


338    The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

"  I  am  not  offended,  and  .  .  .  and  it's  not  your 
business.  Why,  it's  .  .  .  why,  it's  positively  ridic- 
ulous !  I  have  been  thrust  into  it  like  a  chicken  in 
the  broth,  and  now  it  seems  I'm  to  blame !  " 

A  ring  was  heard.  The  boy  sprang  up  from  his 
place  and  ran  out.  A  minute  later  a  lady  came  into 
the  room  with  a  little  girl;  this  was  Olga  Ivanovna, 
Alyosha's  mother.  Alyosha  followed  them  in,  skip- 
ping and  jumping,  humming  aloud  and  waving  his 
hands.  Belyaev  nodded,  and  went  on  walking  up 
and  down. 

"  Of  course,  whose  fault  is  it  if  not  mine?  "  he 
muttered  with  a  snort.  "He  is  right!  He  is  an 
injured  husband." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about?  "  asked  Olga  Iva- 
novna. 

"  What  about?  .  .  .  Why,  just  listen  to  the  tales 
your  lawful  spouse  is  spreading  now!  It  appears 
that  I  am  a  scoundrel  and  a  villain,  that  I  have 
ruined  you  and  the  children.  All  of  you  are  un- 
happy, and  I  am  the  only  happy  one !  Wonderfully, 
wonderfully  happy!  " 

"  I  don't  understand,  Nikolay.  What's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"  Why,  listen  to  this  young  gentleman !  "  said  Bel- 
yaev, pointing  to  Alyosha. 

Alyosha  flushed  crimson,  then  turned  pale,  and 
his  whole  face  began  working  with  terror. 


A  Trifle  from  Life  339 

"  Nikolay  Ilyitch,"  he  said  in  a  loud  whisper. 
"Sh-sh!"  ' 

Olga  Ivanovna  looked  in  surprise  at  Alyosha, 
then  at  Belyaev,  then  at  Alyosha  again. 

"  Just  ask  him,"  Belyaev  went  on.  "  Your  Pela- 
gea,  like  a  regular  fool,  takes  them  about  to  restau- 
rants and  arranges  meetings  with  their  papa.  But 
that's  not  the  point:  the  point  is  that  their  dear  papa 
is  a  victim,  while  I'm  a  wretch  who  has  broken  up 
both  your  lives.  .  .  ." 

"  Nikolay  Ilyitch,"  moaned  Alyosha.  "  Why, 
you  promised  on  your  word  of  honour!  " 

"  Oh,  get  away !  "  said  Belyaev,  waving  him  oft. 
"  This  is  more  important  than  any  word  of  honour. 
It's  the  hypocrisy  revolts  me,  the  lying!  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  Olga  Ivanovna,  and 
tears  glistened  in  her  eyes.  '  Tell  me,  Alyosha," 
she  turned  to  her  son.  "  Do  you  see  your  father?  " 

Alyosha  did  not  hear  her;  he  was  looking  with 
horror  at  Belyaev. 

"It's  impossible,"  said  his  mother;  "I  will  go 
and  question  Pelagea." 

Olga  Ivanovna  went  out. 

"  I  say,  you  promised  on  your  word  of  honour!  " 
said  Alyosha,  trembling  all  over. 

Belyaev  dismissed  him  with  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
and  went  on  walking  up  and  down.  He  was  ab- 
sorbed in  his  grievance  and  was  oblivious  of  the 


34-O     The  Party  and  Other  Stories 

boy's  presence,  as  he  always  had  been.  He,  a  grown- 
up, serious  person,  had  no  thought  to  spare  for  boys. 
And  Alyosha  sat  down  in  the  corner  and  told  Sonia 
with  horror  how  he  had  been  deceived.  He  was 
trembling,  stammering,  and  crying.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  his  life  that  he  had  been  brought  into  such 
coarse  contact  with  lying;  till  then  he  had  not  known 
that  there  are  in  the  world,  besides  sweet  pears,  pies, 
and  expensive  watches,  a  great  many  things  for  which 
the  language  of  children  has  no  expression. 


THE    END 


PSINXED  IN  THE  UK1TED  STATES  OZ 


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